


to breathe again

by cloudlesslysky



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anxiety, Finished, Gen, Healer Draco Malfoy, Minor Original Character(s), Nightmares, Not Epilogue Compliant, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Third Person Limited, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Soul-Searching, Travelling the world, magic world building, vague references to past sexual harrassment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2020-03-07 01:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 56,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18863275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudlesslysky/pseuds/cloudlesslysky
Summary: The war is over and the Malfoy family has received their sentences for their part in the war. As soon as he can, Draco Malfoy flees Britain, haunted by what happened during the war.Slowly but surely he starts piecing himself together at the same time as he learns more and more about non-British magic. And slowly he realises what he wants from life and, perhaps, how he can make amends.((Fic is finished at 44 chapters, updates as chapters are finished with editing))





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the lyrics to "Darkness" by Disturbed
> 
> Well! This first chapter is a bit of a prologue, so it's actually from omniscient POV rather than Draco's. But every single following chapter will be entirely from 3rd Person limited to Draco.

Quite a few people had wondered what the Malfoy family's trial would be like. The image of a haughty looking Lucius Malfoy—head held high and chin raised—was what most imagined. At his side, a defiant and proud looking man, barely more than a boy; just as straight in the back and with his head held equally high. Last, stood behind them a proud woman, as elegant as she was cold. All of them beautiful, dressed in expensive, beautifully-made clothing. All of them certain they were better than everyone else in the room.

That people would imagine such a scene was not especially surprising as both Lucius and Narcissa had such a countenance during Lucius's trial after the first wizarding war; when Lucius claimed he'd been under the influence of the Imperius curse, unable to remember any crimes his body may have committed—and thus innocent.

Few could possibly have conjured the reality that faced those in the locked court for the trial.

Rather than standing tall and proud, each of them a mountain of poise and elegance, the Malfoy clan crowded together. It appeared that they were working hard to seemingly stay out of sight; the mother and father crowding around the son, almost as if to hide him from view, to shield him from onlookers.

But more than how they stood in relation to each other, the real cause for confusion was their appearance.

Dishevelled. Pale—even for Malfoys—almost ashen skin. Bags under their eyes and still fading bruises. Expressions not so much proud and haughty, not even neutral, as merely… tired. Except for the boy; he wore an expression that more closely resembled shell-shocked blankness than anything else.

Their solicitor—and of course the Malfoys still had enough political power to force such an allowance—spoke for most of the time allotted to the defence. In fact, none of the Malfoys seemed to have any interest in speaking at all. Instead they remained silent. Their faces were pale and almost gaunt as they stared forward, not turning around to look at the crowd that has gathered in the court.

Another surprise of the trial came when Harry Potter took the stand and testified on behalf of both Draco and Narcissa. He detailed what actions they took in direct defiance of the Dark Lord, and how it saved his life—and ultimately, perhaps, even the world.

Much of the audience appeared conflicted, uncertain on what they thought and felt. Clearly this was the second time the Malfoys had worked with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but everyone who saw them during this time saw people who clearly weren't well, and whose health seemed to only diminish as time went on.

When the young Malfoy took the stand, his voice almost hoarse as he spoke, he detailed the fear he’d lived in constantly, knowing that unless he’d done as he was told—and succeeded—his family would have been killed for his failure.

Not once did he lift his eyes to look at the audience, as if afraid of them even as they sat silently and listened to his tale of youthful incomprehension, dawning horror, and fearful compliance under pain of torture and death.

  


* * *

  


Dermot McFlaggen had worked at the Ministry of Magic as a prosecutor for 27 years, and was now the main prosecutor in the case against the Malfoy family. He stared at the pale, young man in the dock for a few moments before he cleared his throat and continued his cross-examination.

"Mr Malfoy, we have witness statements that place you on the Hogwarts side of the final battle before the temporary pause in the battle, and upon the deal given by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—sparing all those who willingly joined the Death Eaters at his side—you left your classmates and walked across the courtyard to stand among the death eaters. Is this correct?"

Draco Malfoy closed his eyes, arms wrapped tightly around himself, as he seemed to shrink in his seat. "Yes."

McFlaggen hummed in acknowledgement. "Why did you take his deal?"

The young man turned his face away, a small bruise still visible on his left cheek—blue and mottled-green against pale flesh—and bit his lip, seemingly unwilling to answer.

McFlaggen’s eyes narrowed as he leaned forward and said sharply, "Mister Malfoy, please answer the question."

"I wanted to die with my parents." The reply was low and hoarse, and a shudder ran through the audience. The silence that spread after was only broken by a small pained sob from Narcissa Malfoy; the usually stoic woman overwrought.

McFlaggen blinked. "I—I see." He cleared his throat, the sound almost unnaturally loud in the hall. "Eyewitnesses state that you received an embrace and praise from You-Know-Who once you reached him. Is this correct?"

A shiver ran through Draco's slim frame before he answered, voice hoarser than before, "Yes. It is." He looked up at McFlaggen then, eyes wide and almost crazed, before he quickly turned his face away again.

Unease swept across the court in the face of Draco Malfoy’s obvious fear.

McFlaggen caught the eye of his colleague, Aramunda Servilla, who was equally unsettled. Neither of them had been prepared for the young man's desolate countenance. A haughty and spoiled brat, or even a shrieking child, was much easier to deal with than one that was blank faced but clearly traumatised. Far more reminiscent of the one surviving child in the case against the child murderer James Donugal, than Donugal himself.

McFlaggen squirmed slightly, despite trying to remain still and poised. There was something in Draco Malfoy’s countenance that hinted at a trauma that went beyond the realities of war, easily spotted by every member in the audience. 

Desperately, McFlaggen reached for the first thought that crosses his mind, the prepared questions having entirely fled his memory for the moment. "Was this the first time this happened?" He winced, glancing at his colleague who grimaced in turn.

"I do not see how this relates to Mister Malfoy’s case," the Malfoys’ defence council said, back straight and eyes sharp, beyond displeased.

McFlaggen flinched. “My apologies, disregard the question, Mr Malfoy, it was out of turn.” He glanced at the gathered Wizengamot members, their displeased gazes staring him down in turn. For all that most of them likely still wished to see the Malfoys get what was coming for them, due process and a fair trial was important.

Before McFlaggen could move the topic along, however, Draco Malfoy answered the question anyway.

"No, it wasn’t."

His jaw was visibly clenched, and every witch and wizard seated closely enough could see how hard his fingers dig into the flesh of his arms. The self-embrace a parody of self-reassurance, and clearly of little help.

McFlaggen looked to Servilla for help, but she only frowned and shook her head. Best to leave this line of questioning alone, no doubt will the Malfoys’ solicitor be able to use it to twist the case in their favour.

Draco Malfoy's testimony wrapped up not long after, the wind having entirely gone out of the sails of the prosecution. When Draco returned to his parents side, he was immediately swallowed up by the space between them, once more almost entirely hidden from sight.

  


* * *

  


When the time came for Lucius Malfoy’s testimony, several people in the crowd shifted in their seats—eager to see what would surely be the once proud man pleading and begging, brought down to the lowest point possible. Eager to see him suffer.

Malfoy took the stand with little fanfare. His countenance was still unhealthy and tired, but with an underlying core of calm and steel. The more astute members of the audience quickly realised that he wouldn’t simply roll over and play dead.

"Mister Malfoy," it was Prosecutor Servilla who spoke this time, "Do you deny that you have worked with You-Know-Who during this second wizarding war?"

He blinked at her, slowly, his blank expression not changing the slightest despite her quite pointed opening question.

"To do so would be pointless." 

Servilla frowned, seemingly displeased with the answer despite it being an agreement.

"So you do not claim you were under the Imperius curse this time, unlike at your trial seventeen years ago?" She kept her voice calm and level, any emotion she may have locked down tight behind a wall of passive neutrality.

"No Imperius curse this time," Lucius began, surprisingly still blank faced, "merely a lack of choice and any other alternative."

_That_ set off murmurs in the hall. Agitated voices rose in volume until the cacophony in the hall reached an almost unbearable level until noise cancelling shields had to be raised. Once the court finally calmed down and the shields were lowered again, the trial continued.

McFlaggen and Servilla shared a glance before McFlaggen took over again. "You claim you _had no choice_ but to work with the darkest wizard of our time? A wizard seeking the genocide of muggleborn and muggles?" 

Malfoy's didn’t move a muscle and his expression never changed, but when his eyes swept over the hall, they were sharp and hard. Several of those gathered flinched away, unable to meet that intense gaze.

Then, shockingly, Malfoy turned to the acting Minister of Magic himself, everyone else seemingly irrelevant.

Only once Kingsley Shacklebolt met his eyes did Malfoy deign to speak, his voice low. "Tell me,” he murmured, “What would you do if, after the Ministry and media's constant ridicule of The-Boy-Who-Lived's claims that the Dark Lord returned, you suddenly found said Dark Lord _in your sitting room_ , standing between you and your family?”

He paused briefly, letting the weight of his words sink in.

“If he were saying how it was so good to see you again? Complimenting your spouse on your lovely home and raising your _fourteen years old_ child's face with a hand under their chin to comment on how _splendidly_ they've grown?" Malfoy nearly spat out the last few words. For the first time since this trial began, Lucius Malfoy's calm mask cracked—just a little—and anger seeped out. 

"Would _you_ have tried to escape him and gone to a Ministry that would clearly neither believe you nor try to help you and thus doom both yourself and your family?" A grim pause. “Or would you have done whatever you had to, so as to try and keep them safe?"

The silence of the hall was once again broken by murmurs, and the unease that had begun to creep into the room during Draco Malfoy’s testimony grew even thicker.

"I suppose it is the belief among many of you that I should have done it anyway. That I should have sacrificed myself and my family for the greater good." Lucius Malfoy's voice dropped several octaves and his smooth mask turned into a grim frown. "But if I must let my family die for the sake of strangers to be considered a good person, then I'm afraid I will _never_ be a good person.” He paused briefly, his jaws clenched tight. “I did what I could to protect my family, and it is to my everlasting shame and horror that I failed in protecting my son. I am not ashamed of trying to keep my son and wife safe, no matter _what_ you think of my methods."

"Yes, well…" McFlaggen squirmed a bit, clearly thrown by the turn of the conversation took and taken off guard by Lucius's sentiments. He cleared his throat. "Previous testimonies of one Mister Harry Potter claims you came to the graveyard where He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named first regained corporeal form—" his eyes scanned the parchment in his hands wildly—"professing your loyalty to him. Do you dispute these claims? They, uh, they go against what you said regarding the dark lord showing up in your sitting room."

"Hardly." The look Lucius shoots the wizard was nothing short of condescending. "I didn't say it was the _first_ time I saw the Dark Lord since his return. I felt the mark burn, and I knew what it meant. Professing my loyalty to him was easy. After all, we both knew I was lying—he needed no legilimency to know that. He _always_ knew that my loyalty lies only with Narcissa and Draco." 

Murmurs spread through the court at the startling revelation.

Lucius turned his head away from the wizards to gaze at this family instead. "That is precisely _why_ he came to the manor and why he was using them as _hostages_ in all but name."

McFlaggen looked to his parchment. "You had a less prominent position among his followers after your arrest, I take it?"

Lucius stared the man down, his face an unreadable mask.

The silence grew, stretching across the many minutes where Malfoy was silent, merely looking at McFlaggen.

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had me broken out of Azkaban among many other Death Eaters, that is true, but he also took my wand from me." His face was calm, almost placid, though the ever-present hint of exhaustion remained. "For almost a year I lived among Death Eaters who wished me dead to varying degrees completely without protection. In fact, the he forced me to participate in the battle of Hogwarts _without a wand_."

Dead silence.

"And this was _after_ he gave my sixteen year-old son the impossible task of killing Albus Dumbledore on his own _and_ after taking over Malfoy Manor as his headquarters, turning my son's home into his _prison_." Lucius’s face remained placid as he spoke, belying the sharpness of the words. "Do not for a second believe he expected Draco to succeed. He _wanted_ him to fail, rest assured. After all, if Draco failed as well, then the Malfoys had truly failed him for good, and he could do with us whatever he pleased without anyone so much as blinking an eye."

"You mean he felt he couldn't if you didn't?" Servilla blurted out from her seat, jaw slack.

Murmurs of disbelief started in the audience, and McFlaggen looked at Malfoy with a suspicious stare. That couldn’t possibly be true.

"Oh, he certainly could have. But he was no fool, and he knew that killing your followers on a whim does not make the rest of them more loyal, quite the opposite. As such, he took some care in projecting a… _fair_ , shall we say, way of dealing punishment."

What He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named considered fair, however, remained unsaid to the discomfort of the court.

The trial continued on, but the prosecution seemed to have entirely run out of steam, and most of the audience was less than pleased with it. Rather than seeing a man they'd all love to see grovel do just that, they had been faced with a poised and calm Lucius Malfoy, though lacking his usual haughtiness. There was also more than a few uncomfortable implications that could be strung together from the testimonies given.

"Any last words, Mister Malfoy?" Servilla asked, struggling to keep her face neutral in the face of such baffling testimonies. In all her years, she thought this may be the first time she had been thrown this off-guard.

"I believe that, regardless of verdict, a team of aurors, unspeakables, and curse breakers should be guided by either myself of my wife through Malfoy Manor to take care of the numerous wards and dark objects left behind by You-Know-Who." He brushed a lock of white-blond hair over his shoulder.

Prosecutor Servilla blinked in surprise. She shared a look with McFlaggen, but neither was sure how to react.

Lucius Malfoy, suggesting a raid on his own home? Willingly guiding ministry workers through finding and destroying dark artefacts? Preposterous. Servilla had no doubts that the Wizengamot would have demanded a raid on Malfoy Manor regardless of the trial’s outcome, but to have Malfoy not only suggest it himself, but also offer to lead the Ministry through it...

"I-I…" Servilla stumbled over her words, caught off guard, and throws a towards McFlaggen who is unfortunately equally lost for words. SHe then looked towards Minister Shacklebolt and his stunned expression.

It was, however, the Minister who overcame his surprise first. "And if you're both sent to Azkaban, effective immediately?" He raised an eyebrow. "Would your son be able to act as guide in your stead?" Kingsley had no actual thought of requesting such a thing, but he was… curious, to see Lucius's reaction.

Said reaction was gritted teeth and anger flashing through cold, grey eyes. "Capable, certainly. But I would quite prefer that my son doesn't need to step a single foot in the Manor before it's been purged and entirely redecorated." His fingers twitched, as if longing for a wand—the very picture of a protective father.

It was Minister Shacklebolt's nerves of steel that kept his face placid in the face of the anger and further implications that something quite terrible, something they're not quite willing to speak of, happened to Draco Malfoy during the years You-Know-Who stayed in Malfoy Manor. No doubt was it something terrible and dark judging by the young man’s countenance, but their refusal to speak of it remained baffling.

"I see." 

Shacklebolt didn't look around, but he was quite certain he wasn't not the only one with suspicions. However, he was clearly not the only one quite surprised with how closed-mouthed the Malfoys were on the topic. Based on his previous meetings with Lucius Malfoy he would have assumed they would have milked injuries and horrors inflicted by the Dark Lord for all their worth in some hope of gaining sympathy—ever the manipulator. Shacklebolt was also certain he was not the only one with these expectations.

And yet, nothing.

Lucius Malfoy's testimony ended, and deliberation regarding guilt, absolution, and punishments began.

  


* * *

  


Ultimately, the fact the Malfoys betrayed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in favour of Harry Potter—confirmed by Mister Potter's own testimony—worked quite well in their favour.

Narcissa Malfoy would be subjected to six months of probation that would require spell monitoring of her wand, and prohibition from buying certain potions ingredients. If not for the reveal of her involvement of her husband’s attack on the ministry a few years earlier, Harry Potter’s testimony in her favour regarding her lie to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named might even have ensured her a complete acquittal. She took the news with grace and poise, and merely inclined her head with a small nod.

Lucius Malfoy was given three years of house arrest and wand monitoring, with another two years of probation, but no time in Azkaban. Azkaban’s need for restructuring and repairs meant only a few prisoners would be possible keep there, and on that list Malfoy had managed to make himself not a priority convict. He faced the grumblings of the crowd with stoic cool and barely blinked as the sentence was read.

For Draco Malfoy, a year of probation and mandatory completion of his schooling at Hogwarts and a specified grade-average on his N.E.W.T.s, lest his probation be prolonged to two years. His refusal to turn Harry Potter over to the Death Eaters when the latter had been captured as well as the fact that he was underaged for the worst of his crimes and unwilling for most others gave him much leniency. Draco Malfoy didn’t look up upon being given his sentence, and instead stayed hunched and pressed close to his parents, still seemingly wanted to hide.

The noise level in the hall fluctuated as the final verdict was read. The people in the hall unsure of what to think. None of the Malfoys had been entirely freed, but they had also not been entirely condemned either.

And still many questions remained unanswered in the minds of the audience.


	2. Chapter 2

The small summer cottage is a cosy place and Draco only has good memories from it. Voldemort has never been here, hasn't spread his taint to its five rooms. It's a place where Draco _almost_ feels safe. A place where he knows that the Dark lord has never and will never be, because he's dead. Because Harry Potter killed him.

Sometimes Draco cannot breathe when he thinks about Voldemort for too long.

It hasn't been long enough since the war for Draco to have learned to cast off the fear yet. Perhaps he never will.

As a young child, Draco had been afraid of there being a monster under his bed, a dementor or something equally horrible. No matter how many times his parents or the house elves reassured him that there was nothing beneath it, he simply couldn't sleep in his own bed some nights, the fear strangling him.

He'd run to his parents then, squeeze in between them in their large bed and refuse to leave, refuse to go back to where the monster was. It was a testament to his parents' love that they indulged him. He's never felt as safe as when his parents curled around him during those nights, surrounding him in a cocoon made from their bodies, suffusing him with warmth and love.

He's left fear of the monster under his bed behind him since long ago, but he has since become haunted by something much worse.

This time, however, his parents cannot banish the fear, cannot protect him from the shade that follows his every steps. Not when a permanent reminder of the monster haunting him is carved into the flesh of his left arm, an ugly scar from merely one of the many wounds the monster inflicted on him.

He wanders the cottage aimlessly, into the kitchen, out into the garden, past the rose bushes and in among the lilies, before he turns back around and heads inside again.

Mother and father are at the manor, guiding aurors and curse breakers through the mess the monster left behind. Meanwhile, Draco's supposed to do the homework his potions tutor set before him, but he cannot focus. His mind is adrift and he needs to _move_ , to walk, to remind himself that his body is his own, his actions belong to him, and beyond general set guidelines—finish your schooling, stay out of trouble, do no harm—he's free to do what he wants, free to act according to his own will.

He's glad the ministry set up a tutoring system, private lessons in his current residence, rather than have him return to Hogwarts for an eighth year. He doesn't think he could have stood to be there, among the people he allowed to come to harm—in a place he loved but still damaged—surrounded by the scars left behind by the monster that already haunts his every step.

Sometimes he cannot sleep, lying awake for hours, staring at the ceiling and trying to remember how to close his eyes.

Sometimes he wakes up from nightmares of what was and what could have been and he can't _breathe._

Perhaps he should talk to a therapist, _get help…_ but who would want to help him? He's surprised that the ministry managed to find people willing to teach him what he'll need for his N.E.W.T.s at all, so he has no hopes for a therapist.

He'll be fine. He can do it.

He's free, and Voldemort is dead.

He'll never touch him again.

Never make another veiled threat.

Can never make real the threat of killing Draco's parents.

The clock chimes, the sound echoing through the small cottage, and Draco nods to himself. It's time to head back to his room to read up on ancient runes, potions, charms, and transfiguration… Time to read up on all of his classes.

He has nothing else to do.

Perhaps the ministry expects him to fail, fail and give them cause for longer probation, or even cause for imprisoning him, but...

Draco was one of the brightest students of his year, only Granger ever bested him, and he'll be damned if he'll let that be taken from him. If he'll let _Voldemort_ take that from him.

He'll do it. He'll _succeed._

He sits down by the desk and stares at his books. He has nothing else to do, after all.

  


* * *

  


Pansy writes him on occasion to talk about how things are at Hogwarts and all the changes Professor McGonagall is enacting now that she's headmistress and doesn't have to listen to Dumbledore anymore.

He was surprised to hear that the houses barely exist beyond Quidditch and that classes are divided based on general skill levels to make for a better study environment. All the eight years student share a common room, but the other years have been mixed entirely based on preference for which room they'd like to stay in, with the caveat that the older years cannot choose their old common room.

He finds it both baffling and encouraging at the same time.

Pansy, at least, seems to enjoy this new version of Hogwarts.

_'It'll likely take a while, but for once no one was booed when sorted into Slytherin, you know? Even though it's so close to the war… Oh Draco, I wish you were here.'_

He doesn't.

He doesn't wish he was there at all. While he believes her if she thinks this new version of Hogwarts is better, while a part of him would like to see it, most of him never wants to set foot on Hogwarts again. The castle is almost sentient from centuries of being imbued with more magic than you can shake a broom at and he has no doubt it remembers just _who_ let the Death Eaters inside… Whose fault it is that it became a battleground.

He takes out a parchment and a quill and sets to answer Pansy's letter. He doesn't want her to think that… That they're not friends anymore. (Are they friends? He's not sure. Why would anyone want to be his friend after all that he's done?)

In the corner of his eye he can see Hortense drink some water and take some nibbles of food before she hunkers down on herself to sleep for a bit. He'll let her rest before he sends her off with Pansy's letter.

He nibbles on the end of his quill as he ponders whether or not to tell her that the first thing he and his parents had done once the sentencing and bureaucracy was dealt with had been to go and tailor new closets for themselves so they could _burn_ all the old clothes.

The fire had been beautiful, and liberating.

Out with the old, bring in the new.

A new beginning.

From the ashes a phoenix will rise.

He dips the quill in ink and starts to write. If his letter isn't at least as long as Pansy's she'll yell at him.

A ghost of a smile falls fleetingly over his lips.

Perhaps she'll come visit some weekend. Maybe she'll bring some of the others.

It seems odd to be sure that there is a tomorrow, to know that unless something incredibly unlikely happens, he will live a full life—not die as a teenager in a war he didn't want for a monster he followed out of fear and desperation to keep himself and his parents alive.

He loses himself in the letter and in day dreams.

  


* * *

  


The nights are the hardest.

During the days he can almost forget but for fleeting moments where the fear creeps up on him, when he thinks he feels a hand slide across his back, or when the wind that rustles his hair sounds like a hissing voice.

But the nights…

Nightmares haunt him. Memories of it all, seeing everything again.

Harry Potter not waking up.

The Hogwarts side losing the battle to the Death Eaters.

Being surrounded by gleefully laughing Death Eaters, his aunt Bellatrix smiling that crazed smile of his, stroking his cheeks and telling him how _proud_ she is that he came back to them, just as he should have. Telling him how _pleased_ Voldemort is.

Seeing Voldemort's face and knowing… _knowing._

Often times he sees his parents die.

Sometimes at the hands of Potter's side of the war, sometimes at Voldemort's hands.

It hardly matters who does it, he wakes up screaming anyway.

He knows his parents fear for him, he sees it in their wild eyed looks as they rush into his room every time he wakes them by screaming himself hoarse in the throes of another nightmare, he feels it in the way they hug him—so hard he wonders if they wish they could absorb him into their own bodies to shield him from everything else—and he knows it by the way they teach him to brew calming draughts and dreamless sleep potions.

The potions help.

Sometimes.

  


* * *

  


Mipsy has been with the Malfoy family since before Draco's father was born. She was one of Draco's most common baby sitters, happy to help his mother with his care.

While the other House Elves go with mother and father back to the manor to help suss out dark artefacts and other things that need destroying or redoing in the manor, Mipsy stays in the cottage with Draco.

She fusses over him, nags at him to eat, and reminds him that he needs to take breaks from his books. Perhaps when he was younger he would have taken offense, but considering that all Malfoy house elves stayed hidden and out of sight while Voldemort was present in the house, Draco finds her soothing. The fact that she's here and unapologetic about her presence is a constant reminder that Voldemort is _gone_. Gone. Dead and dust.

Having her with him is… good. He thinks. And so he asks her to teach him how to cook, and while she's slightly reluctant at first, she soon takes to it with great enthusiasm.

As does Draco.

It's… it's a rebellion, in a way, if you _can_ rebel against a dead man. But it's something he can do, something Voldemort would have considered _beneath_ him, and so he does it great relish.

Voldemort made sure to snuff out any and all fight out of Draco when he was still alive. The first time Draco had tried to rebel, just slightly, subtly wearing clothes that looked almost _muggle_ …

It backfired.

He forces the memory of a cold hand resting on his lower back out of his mind. He never tried again, couldn't stomach the thought of another attempt going just as badly.

Draco will never be a Gryffindor; he's a coward and he knows it.

He has the cunning of a Slytherin, and the drive. He knows he wasn't sorted there just because of his family, even though they _are_ common Malfoy traits.

He does have the thirst of knowledge of a Ravenclaw, and he knows that it would have been the Hat's second choice, if there had ever been any doubt about where he would be sorted.

And no matter what his younger self may have haughtily, snidely, _rudely_ said to a young Harry Potter in Madam Malkin's, Draco knows he's more of a Hufflepuff than he'll ever be a Gryffindor. It was the _loyalty_ , his inner Hufflepuff—if he can even claim to have such a thing, it's a ridiculous notion—that got him into the whole mess in the first place. His loyalty and his love for his parents, not his drive, not his cunning, not his thirst for knowledge…

Who would have thought?

Even so, it's not just rebellion, learning to cook, it's a way to take his life back.

He's learning to be in charge of himself again, of being the only one to decide his own actions, the only one to make decisions. Of taking back the power he should have had all along, but had taken from him for the simple reason that he would not abandon his parents.

There's something inside him that says that if he ever wants to get better, if he ever wants to feel like himself again, then he needs to regain the feeling of being in control. He needs to feel _free_ again.

But it's hard, oh so hard.

He has rules that he must follow, demands he must obey, and his freedom is entirely dependant on his new temporary—is it? Perhaps the probation will be drawn out indefinitely even though it's supposed to end in a year—captor's goodwill.

He _must_ finish his schooling and he _must_ pass his N.E.W.T.s.

And they must be N.E.W.T.s, because the ministry has seen his previous scores and tests and they _know_ what level he _should_ be at. They made their demands after the trial, and Draco has no choice but to comply… Unless he wants to make the rest of his life very unpleasant.

Sometimes breathing is hard when he remembers the demands that lay on his shoulders. While not nearly as dire as what Voldemort demanded of him, their mere existence make him hurt in a way he cannot quite explain.

He wants to be free, unshackled, allowed to live like any other of his agemates.

He only barely quells the shrill laugh that wants to rip its way out of his throat.

He doesn't _deserve_ that, does he? He bowed before Voldemort, did his bidding—no matter how awful it made him feel, no matter how terrible at it he was, no matter how much he failed—and was placed at his side. How could Draco ever hope to be treated as just another teenager who was trapped in the war?

He was on the _wrong side._

It's Mipsy's presence that lets him keep it together. He doesn't want to frighten her, because no doubt will she go running to his parents, and…

Draco doesn't want to worry them more than he already is.

They have enough problems without him adding to them.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Returning to Hogwarts is not what Draco had expected, but for every step he takes he wishes he could turn back around and demand the auror with him takes him back to the summer cottage without ever having taken a single step inside the castle itself. He cannot do it himself—his probation doesn't allow it, and it's not yet over—and taking the train back to London is utterly out of the question.

When the owl from the ministry informed him that he would have to take his N.E.W.T.s with an auror guard at Hogwarts, he'd returned to bed and refused to get out of it for the rest of the day. How could he go back there? How could he face everything? And how could he possibly do it with an auror guard?

Humiliating.

Not to mention, who is the auror guarding? Everyone in the castle... or him?

The thought sends a chill through his body. He has barely left the summer cottage all year, and he certainly hasn't ventured into town. He's stayed away from all news papers, and most of his news has come to him through other sources: his parents and the letters from his friends.

He doesn't think he's ready to face the outside world yet, but as he continues on his way towards Hogwarts, Auror Spearwood at his heels, he realises that he doesn't have a choice.

Auror Spearwood is a fairly tall man, of height with Draco himself, but that's about where the similarities end. Where Draco has inherited his mother's slender frame, Auror Spearwood is broad with thick arms and legs. In fact, the man looks far bigger than he is. And where Draco is pale in all aspects, Auror Spearwood is tan with a dark—if thin—mop of hair on his head.

So unlike Voldemort it's actually sort of reassuring.

"Any problems, Mister Malfoy?" Auror Spearwood raises and eyebrow as he speaks, and Draco quickly looks away, ashamed of having been caught.

"No, nothing." He wishes it were winter, so he'd have a collar he could pull up and hide in, but as it is he's wearing regular summer robes—if still black and long-sleeved. The early may weather has been lovely, but he finds himself wishing it were worse, if only to make his choice in wardrobe less... eye-catching.

Part of him wonders if changing up the colour of his wardrobe would help, but he doesn't actually like wearing too much colour, most of the time. he prefers his clothes to be black with only some minor accent colours, like green or blue.

Not white.

Never white.

He represses a shudder and continues on his way, hoping against all hope that he won't run into a single person before he reaches his sleeping hall, but he knows it's unlikely in the extreme. The exams will be taking place over several days, and the thought of staying in the castle for that long making his stomach turn.

But as has become the theme of his life, Draco has no choice in the matter.

  


* * *

  


"Draco!"

Pansy's excited shriek greets him the moment he steps inside the great hall, and Draco only barely refrains from flinching. Her loud yell and the way she suddenly gets out of her seat and running has the entire school's attention suddenly trained on him—so many eyes from the many smaller tables.

It looks so different from what he remembers.

Before he can think more about it, Pansy reaches him and throws her arms around him in a tight hug.

Small and warm, soft curves and with hair that smells of elderberries.

"Hi Pansy," he says softly, and allows his arms to wrap around her in turn. He's pleased to find that he can stand her touch at all.

That makes three people.

"Good to see you, Draco." Blaise Zabini comes towards them, at a much slower and steadier pace than Pansy's excited run, but there's a smile on his face as he reaches out for a handshake.

As soon and Pansy lets him go, Draco gingerly takes Blaise's hand for a firm shake, determined to not flinch even if something in the touch gets to him.

Blaise's hand is warm and dry and his grip is strong. His hands are big, but they're not bony or spindly.

Draco breathes.

He relishes in the differences, focuses on them. It's all he can do.

He does his best to put the rest of the school out of his mind as he follows Blaise and Pansy back to their table. They're seated with two girls he can't name at the top of his head, but they're not glaring or sneering at him, so he takes it as a win.

Draco is almost uncomfortably aware of how Auror Spearwood moves away and heads to the teacher's table—that's something that hasn't changed at least. Makes sense, Draco supposes. It's good to mix the students, but perhaps easiest to keep the teachers together rather than spread them among the students.

He glances anxiously as Auror Spearwood speaks with Pro—Headmistress McGonagall before he takes a seat at the teacher's table to the far right. It's a place from which he's got a clear view of the whole room, no doubt.

Draco winces and turns his attention to the other people at the table.

"Hello, I'm Jeanine Aspen. It's nice to meet you," the girl on the right—with flaxen hair and a round face—says and reaches out a hand to him.

"A pleasure," Draco murmurs and takes her hand for a shake. His skin crawls, he wants to yank his hand back and flee the room entirely. Being touched by a stranger is... It's almost more than he can stand.

Her hand is warm—slightly sweaty even—and her pudgy fingers are entirely different from... from _his_.

Even so, Draco only barely contains his flinch, and hopes and sends prayers to any who may listen that his face remains calm.

"And I'm Sarah James," the other girl says, waving her hand so wildly it makes the thick dark curls on her head shake with the force of it.

He gives her a small smile and waves back gently, and much slower.

The fact that she did not instigate a handshake is both a relief and anxiety inducing at the same time. Did she notice how uncomfortable he was? Is that why she didn't want to shake his hand? Or is it... Is it because of who... _what_ he is?

He hates the thought that that is all he'll ever be. That the only thing anyone will ever see when they look at him for the rest of his life is Voldemort. Voldemort and nothing else. That all they will see are his mistakes, the things he was forced to do lest he and his parents were to be killed.

It's almost intolerable, and he finds it hard to breathe sometimes when he thinks of it. Whatever he does, as long as there's a light shining on him, as long as someone is watching, Voldemort's shadow will always fall over him.

It's only through sheer force of will that Draco doesn't start scratching at the mark on his left forearm. The less attention he brings to it, the better.

He keeps his head mostly down for most of the meal, though he does accept the food that Pansy plies him with and does his best to keep up with the conversation.

He's upset, he's tired, he's scared, but... Soon.

If he can just get through this month of N.E.W.T.s, if he can just get through them with the grades the Ministry expects of him, then he will finally be free. Free from his current captor. Free to finally do what he wants.

Free to leave Britain behind entirely.

Free to go somewhere else, somewhere where the name Draco Malfoy means nothing.

Away from Britain, away from _Europe._

He feels the desire like an itch in his skin. He wants to go somewhere else, he wants to travel for days on end until he's veritable mess of aching feet and old sweat. Until he looks nothing like the polished Malfoy heir Voldemort had looked at, had—!

Draco forces the thoughts away and laughs at a joke Blaise made. He'll become his own person again, somehow.

He'll go by his own rules and by his own will.

  


* * *

  


"Welcome, Mr. Malfoy. The ministry notified me of your pending arrival yesterday morning, I'm glad to see you have made it with no trouble." McGonagall's face is placid and unreadable, but there's a sharpness in her eyes that makes Draco feel like he should straighten up and then get on his knees to beg her for forgiveness.

He would, if the thought of being on his knees in front of someone else didn't threaten to send him into hysterics.

"Thank you, Headmistress," he murmurs, unsure of how to talk to her. She's certainly seen the worst of him, and rarely anything good—unless one counts his marks in her classes.

"I expect you'll do well on your exams, Mr. Malfoy, you've always been very skilled. I have no doubts you'll meet the admittedly stringent grade average demanded by the Ministry."

So she knows about that too.

Draco isn't truly worried about his grades, not really. She's not wrong when she says that he's always been skilled, it's not arrogance that makes him agree with her on that point, and he's had not much of anything to do this entire year except study and breathe.

He can do it, he _will_ do it.

And he will be free.

"I'll succeed, I'm sure," he agrees, though he cannot stop the way his voice comes out hoarse, as if he's forcing the words out without truly believing them.

"Good." She nods decisively. "The house elves have taken your luggage to your room in the eighth-year common room. Usually you would be assigned a roommate, but as it's almost the end of term and everyone else is already paired up, you will have your own room at the end of the hall. Auror Spearwood will be staying nearby."

Draco nearly winces. If he's sleeping in connection to the common room he'll no doubt run into all of the other returning eight years. The thought is less than pleasant, especially since he knows from Pansy's letters that the entire golden trio will be there—even though Draco managed to avoid seeing them in the great hall when he arrived.

"The last bit of information you'll need is your exam schedule. Please take a look at the list and tell me if any of the exams you're signed up for are incorrect or missing so that I may rectify the issue." She holds out a bit of parchment for Draco to take.

He reads over it carefully. _Charms, Potions, Transfiguration, Ancient Runes, Herbology, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Arithmancy..._ He goes through the list, one by one.

"They're all there, headmistress," he says once he's finished, struggling to keep his voice level. It's all suddenly so very real. He just needs to complete this, complete these test with mostly Os and a few Es and he'll be... free.

It's almost too much to hope for, but he cannot stop the small treacherous glint of hope in his chest.

Soon.

  


* * *

  


"Did your meeting with McGonagall go alright, Draco?" Pansy has a book bag slung over her shoulder, it looks so heavy that Draco almost winces, feeling lucky that his own books are in his trunks in his rooms.

"She just gave me my exam schedule and explained where I'll be staying for the time being." He shrugs minutely.

"Will you be with the rest of us eight years?" Blaise shifts his own bag to the other shoulder.

Draco nods. "I got a separate room, but yes."

Pansy lets out a happy little laugh. "Oh that will be great, Draco! The common room is actually really nice. I mean, I miss the dungeons sometimes, you know I always loved watching the lake, but the eighth year room isn't bad at all."

"It's true," Blaise says, nodding in agreement. "I didn't think there was another space that could work as a common room, but I suppose this castle has more nooks and crannies than I'd ever imagined."

Draco hums in agreement but doesn't say anything. They round a corner until they're in front of a barren wall. There's nothing significant about it, but a few metres to the left there's a landscape portrait of... the French Alps?

Draco stares at the large painting in confusion, he's never seen it before and he has no idea why Hogwarts would even have such a painting. However, before he can dwell too long, Pansy walks up to the empty wall, places both of her hands flat against it and whispers "Semper Fidelis".

The reaction is instantaneous: the stones of the wall slide to the sides, opening up a large hole—an entrance. Without pause, Pansy and Blaise both start walking through, and Draco hurries to follow them into what must be the eighth-year common room.

The room is large and heated by multiple fires. The walls are decked in banners of all four houses, and there are multiple couches and armchairs throughout the room—and even a few tables of wizarding chess. There are also multiple doors around the room. On each there's a small plaque. When Draco looks closer at the nearest door he finds that it simply states which dorm rooms can be found behind it—by name.

"Your room is probably behind that door to the left," Blaise says as he points towards a mahogany door in the far-left corner—well, as close to a corner as a round room can have—of the room. "It's the only one that had an empty room before this."

"That makes sense," Draco murmurs. He starts to head over to the room—he wants to see where he will sleep for the coming month—one of the doors to the right slams open.

The sudden noise startles Draco, and he twists around, only to come face to face with the Golden Trio themselves.

He only barely manages to suppress a wince.

"Malfoy!" Granger says, a surprised expression on her face. In fact, all of them look surprised to see him. Perhaps they weren't in the Great Hall when he arrived?

"Granger," he murmurs and gives her a quick nod. "Potter, Weasley." He nods to each of them in turn.

Before he can make his escape, however, Pansy catches him by the arm.

"Draco's here for his N.E.W.T.s, so he'll be suffering with the rest of us. Won't that be great?" She laughs loudly, clearly unwilling to let any form of awkward silence descend on the room.

Unable to escape, Draco finds himself looking closer at the three. Both Potter and Weasley seem to have had another growth spurt since last he saw them. Weasley is taller than ever and... Well, Draco can admit that his inner younger self, petty as it is, is a bit put out to find that Potter is now of height with Draco himself. Or taller. They're not close enough for Draco to be able to tell clearly.

"Of course, you're doing N.E.W.T.s." Granger nods to herself. "Which exams will you be taking?" Her voice is stilted, clearly forcing herself to ask, to try and keep a conversation going. Potter and Weasley on the other hand are both shifting in place and wincing, clearly wanting to be anywhere but here.

"Charms, Potions, Transfiguration, Ancient Runes, Herbology, Defence Against the Dark Arts, and Arithmancy," he mumbles, glancing at Pansy briefly before turning his attention back to Granger.

"What a coincidence!" Granger nudges the men at her side, seemingly trying to get them to take part of the conversation. "I'm also taking them. Perhaps we can prepare for them together."

"Perhaps." Draco doesn't miss the sudden look of panicked outrage on Weasley's face, but before anyone else can say anything, he gently shakes off Pansy's grips. "If you'll excuse me, I'm heading to my room to make sure all my things arrived properly."

"Uh, yeah, go ahead," Potter says inanely, looking out of sorts.

Draco doesn't flee the common room.

He _doesn't._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone who reads it enjoys!

The day passes uncomfortably. Pansy and Blaise follow him into his temporary bedroom and decide that he needs their presence right not—which, they're not wrong about per se. Even so, he's not sure how he'll get through a month of this. Seeing the Golden Trio for two minutes was enough to send him hastily walking out of the room—he didn't run.

How can he even look at them when he knows the amount of harm that befell them and their friends? When he knows that no matter how reluctant his part in it was, he is still partly responsible for what happened.

Some of it, anyway. He's not so deluded that he thinks that he's somehow responsible for all of the death Eaters' crimes.

Still, shame bubbles in his gut whenever he thinks of all the things he did... and the things he _didn't_ do.

He tried, sometimes, to make things better for those taken hostage. He tried to resist, to be... better.

But only so far as it did not get him in trouble.

Since he was still selfish about it, still put himself and his parents before everyone else, there's not much good to be had from his actions, is there? He knows his father is firmly assured that he did what he could, despite it meaning that he's not a 'good person', but part of Draco _wants_ to be a good person.

He wonders why that doesn't seem to come easily to him, the way it does others.

Perhaps it's simply because that's the way of his family. The Malfoys look to themselves first. Selfish, perhaps, but if it costs you _everything,_ what good is it to do the "right thing"?

Draco rolls over in bed, trying desperately to push the heavy thoughts out of his mind. If he wants to sleep tonight without taking any potions, then he'll need to stop... brooding? Is that the word for it? Some might say so, but Draco doesn't like to think of himself as a brooder. He's simply... reflecting.

Well, enough of that for now. He needs to sleep.

He starts counting his breaths as he takes them, deep and slow. Slow your breathing and slow your heartbeat, relax, let sleep claim you.

He hopes he won't have any nightmares tonight. He can only hope that should he, the walls will be thick enough to hinder any noise from escaping. The thought of anyone of his peers finding him in the throes of a nightmare, screaming himself hoarse, is less than appealing.

Especially since the rooms nearest his doesn't have his friends. Blaise and Pansy are both on the other end of the hall.

The first people in wouldn't be someone he knows, and he can only imagine how badly he would take having an... _acquaintance_ standing over him when he wakes.

Deep breaths.

In. Out.

In. Out.

In... Out...

In...

Out...

  


* * *

  


Draco remembers that once upon a time he loved being in the spot light. He _wanted_ people's attention, he thrived on it.

Now, however, he finds himself desperately wishing he could simply turn invisible or become one with the castle walls—fade entirely into the background. Out of sight, out of mind.

It's awkward and uncomfortable, seeing all these familiar faces and remembering them twisted in rage and horror, smudged with dirt and singed from hexes.

He hunches in on himself, and is so so grateful that Blaise is taller, bigger, so Draco can duck behind him on occasion. He just wishes he could hide behind Pansy too, but that's impossible.

Still, he tries to not follow them around like a lost puppy either. He doubts they'd appreciate having him underfoot at all times, but he's just... not used to crowds anymore, and he's certainly not comfortable with them.

He spends a lot of time in his room, studying or writing letters to his parents.

  


* * *

  


Draco looks at the parchment in his hand. His latest letter to his parents finished, he figures he should just got to the owlery and send it off immediately. The exams will be starting any day now, and no doubt will he get more busy from now on. Best to warn them, he knows they will worry if he doesn't explain why his replies may become slower.

He opens the door and heads out of his room, closing it gently behind him.

However, when he catches a glimpse of Luna Lovegood in the common room, he stops breathing and turns on his heel immediately. He hurries back into his room and crumbles against the door, pushing it closed behind him.

He tries to breathe, but it's hard.

Memories of those many weeks in the Manor, of seeing her and the others locked up in the basement...

He buries his face in his knees as he sinks to the floor and tries to keep the memories away. Tries desperately to think of anything but those horrible horrible months. Tries to think of anything but her dirt-streaked face as she was locked in the dungeons. Tries to cut out the memory of her screams when some of the death eaters decided to crucio the prisoners "for fun".

Oh, it hadn't happened as often as it could nor gone as far as it could, but what did that matter? It was still absolutely appalling things happening _in his home_ and all the while he _did nothing_ to stop it. He wonders what Lovegood would say if she saw him now. Would she curse him? Or would she try to do the same type of awkward 'let's be polite to each other' thing that Granger had, even though he in no way deserves it?

From either of them.

Even so, it does him no good to dwell on it now. Even if he does, what good will it do the people who suffered due to his actions? Unless he somehow manages to make proper amends, somehow make up for the harm he's caused, what does his regret matter?

Especially when in some ways, he _doesn't_ regret it. Some things he _cannot_ regret, or it would mean regretting the fact that he and his parents live. And he can't do that, he just can't.

He focuses on his breathing, trying to get it back under control. He counts the breaths and deliberately forces himself to draw deep and slow ones, ever as they shudder.

Slowly but surely he brings himself back from the edge of panic.

He's not in the manor.

Voldemort is gone.

His parents are alive.

 _He's_ alive.

He heads to the small bathroom adjacent to his room and stares at himself in the mirror. His eyes are slightly red rimmed, but unless he stays still long enough for anyone to get a good look at him, they're unlikely to notice.

If he just keeps his head high and walks quickly, he can get through the common room without anyone noticing that he may have cried a bit.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Keep to yourself as much as you can, Draco, and spare everyone the awkwardness of having to bring you into conversations. Spare them the pain of your presence as much as you can. It's too close to what happened, forgiveness—if ever possible—can hardly come this quickly.

He nods to himself, determined, and takes a deep fortifying breath before he grabs his letter and starts walking again.

He keeps his eyes averted from where Lovegood was sitting, and hurries towards the door.

"Malfoy!" The cheer in Potter's voice is almost certainly forced. "Where are you going? We were thinking of having a tournament in wizarding chess..."

Draco stops just on the inside of the door, and clears his throat awkwardly.

"I was just heading to the owlery. To send a letter." He shifts from one foot to the other. "Good luck in the tournament."

And then he moves again, heading outside before anyone can stop him.

He's not fleeing.

  


* * *

  


The first N.E.W.T. exam, charms, is only days away and Draco finds himself in the corner of the common room with his books and notes spread around him. He would have happily stayed in his room for studying, but Pansy and Blaise had been adamant that he needed to get out more, be around _people._

Perhaps they're right, he knows his parents certainly agree with them—to a certain degree anyway.

Still, he finds himself listening with one ear to the going ons in the room, low murmurs and questions flying about regarding the topic itself, but also some conversations that are, in fact, completely unrelated to charms.

He goes back to practising his actual charms, trying avoid looking at anyone as he does so. He'd rather not accidentally make anyone think he's planning on attacking them, no matter how far-fetched the idea may seem. Especially since Auror Spearwood is sitting on a chair in the same room. He's reading a book, but Draco has no doubt in his mind that the man is on guard and capable of acting in a split second.

If not, he would be a pretty abysmal auror.

"I give up. It seems like no matter how many times I try to explain it to you, something just isn't connecting. I don't know how else to explain it, and it's clearly not a good explanation for you." Granger's voice cuts through the silence. "I'm sorry, Luna. Perhaps someone else can explain it better to you?"

Draco feels himself twitch slightly at the mention of Lovegood's name. He's not certain why she in particular is causing so much twitching in him, but... Perhaps it's because of how long she was there, in the manor. Perhaps it's because she and Ollivander were the two other long-term prisoners in the mansion, besides Draco and his parents.

Maybe he feels some sort of kinship with her in that, even though their situations were dramatically different and there's no way she would ever feel something of the sort for him.

"It's okay, Hermione. Thank you for trying. I'll see if someone else can explain it to me."

She... _sounds_ healthy at least. That's... that's good.

Draco stares at his books and sighs. He should get back to it, not listen—eavesdrop?—on Granger and Lovegood's conversation. It's none of his business anyway.

Draco moves some papers and starts looking for the next spell he should practice. He's technically done with his N.E.W.T.s preparations, it's all he's being doing all year, more or less, but some last run-throughs of spells is hardly a bad idea anyway. Though, if he's honest with himself, if he hasn't grasped the concept by now, he probably won't do it in time for his charms N.E.W.T. anyway.

"Excuse me, Malfoy?"

Draco flinches backwards, his head snapping up as he finds himself staring at Luna Lovegood. Merlin's beard, how could he have missed her coming up to him?

"I'm sorry, did I startle you?" She tilts her head to the side, and with her... _interesting_ glasses on, she looks a bit like an inquisitive bird more than a human woman.

"It's fine," he murmurs and tries to get himself together. "Can I help you?" Draco only barely manages to suppress his wince at his own words. There was certainly a time when he could have helped her, and didn't. Asking that _now..._

"Oh, yes!" She smiles. "Hermione was trying to help me with the Protean charm, but I'm having trouble understanding her explanations and then I remembered that you're also really good at charms, so I thought maybe you could try to help me and maybe if I have explanations from two different people then maybe I'll be able to understand it."

Draco finds himself staring at her, uncomfortably aware the the noise level in the room has lowered, as if multiple conversations have ended just so the participants can hear what he and Lovegood are saying.

He's also trying not to think of what he used the protean charm for in the first place. But... It's something he can do... to try and make up for what he... if not did to her, then did nothing to stop from happening from her.

"Sure," he murmurs, averting his eyes from her. "Have a seat." He starts putting his papers together before he transfigures a chair out of an empty piece of parchment for Lovegood to sit down on. It'll be less noise than having her drag a different one over from somewhere else.

"Thank you for the chair, Malfoy..." she trails off, pushes her glasses up on her head and stares at him for a while. "Or would you prefer it if I call you Draco?"

He doesn't choke on his own spit, but it's a near thing. As it is, he stops breathing for a short while before he manages to say "Whichever you prefer," in a normal voice. Or as normal as he can manage, anyway.

"Then I'll call you Draco, I think. We're the almost the same age, after all." She smiles again, and Draco avoids her eyes.

He's taught people before. He used to help Gregory and... and Vincent... a lot. They weren't the most talented or sharpest, but they were diligent, so he never had too much trouble being their tutor. If he could manage to teach them, then no doubt he can teach Lovegood.

"Alright," he says as soon as she takes her seat, "What objects have you been working on and what are you trying to achieve?"

It's best to have a lay of the land before he starts. If he can start small and teach her a specific case, then he can likely move on to help her learn the general theory as well. After all, Granger is likely to have started with the general theoretic foundation first—based on what little Draco knows of her—and Lovegood said she'd struggled with it. If he just approaches teaching Lovegood as teaching a... smarter, or at least more gifted, Gregory, then he should be able to do it just fine.

Hopefully.

As long as he keeps breathing and acting like a normal human being at least.


	5. Chapter 5

The Charms N.E.W.T. comes and goes, and Draco is pleased to find that he truly _had_ been prepared for it. The written portion had been entirely anonymous—meaning his name wouldn't give him any inherent disadvantage—and graded by multiple people with the proper credentials, and the practical portion had the same, all of whom would grade separately and then compare.

He can only hope at least some of them will be neutral enough that he'll come out with as good of a score as he possibly can.

Then again, he thinks, the ministry would have their eyes on these exams, and only in part because of him, so every grader is likely to be on their best behaviour.

He hopes.

  


* * *

  


Arithmancy is his next upcoming N.E.W.T., and despite himself—mostly due to Pansy and Blaise's meddling—he finds himself seated at a table with Granger and a few other eighth- and seventh-year students discussing the topic and most practical applications.

It... goes better than he would have expected. No one in unnecessarily snide, and their discussions are fascinating. While his work with his home teacher had been good and useful, he'd forgotten how interesting it is to discuss a topic with several other people who are on the same level as you—rather than discussing it alone with someone who is in a teaching position.

He studiously avoids Granger's eyes, and he's without a doubt the odd duckling of the group, awkward and unsure of his place. However, Pansy plops in on occasion to complain about her upcoming divination N.E.W.T.—Draco was mildly disturbed to realise that he and Granger rolled their eyes at the same time when she brought the topic up—and he's usually happy for her interruptions, even though he has little patience for divination. While it's likely a fascinating and useful subject, the fact that it was taught by Trelawney had made him decide against it—father had had nothing good to say about her and considering all the stories he's heard from Pansy over the years, his father was right on that point.

The day finally arrives—quite quickly, but time moves slowly when you're surrounded by people who you're quite certainly actually hate your guts and would hex you if not for the auror in the corner and the fact that you're actually _very good_ at the subject currently being discussed.

The Arithmancy exam is _brutal_ , but honestly Draco expected absolutely nothing less. Professor Vector has always had high expectations of her students and taking her N.E.W.T. level exam _should_ be nothing but brutal.

Even so, Draco is quite certain he aced the exam, just as he likely did Charms. He's _prepared_ for all of his exams, and he _will_ gain his freedom back.

He works hard to tamp down on his anxiety and worries, it will do him no good.

He can fall apart as soon as it's all over.

  


* * *

  


Compared to Arithmancy, the Potions N.E.W.T. is both a breeze and a relief. It has always been his favourite subject, and though h can retroactively admit that perhaps Professor Snape was not always the best teacher or much for creating a good learning environment, he'd still been Draco's favourite teacher.

And...

He'd _died_ for him.

Draco pushes the thought away. He can't dwell on it, it's only bound to send him into hysterics, the way most things regarding the war.

Sometimes he wishes he could obliviate himself, remove all of his memories past his... He's not certain if he wants to erase his fifth year of Hogwarts or not. It was before Voldemort properly took up residency in the Manor, and since Draco was at school, he wasn't forced to face him especially much until summer came and he was back home.

Home...

He can barely bear to think of the Manor as such anymore, and he hates it.

It was his _home_. He knows the grounds and the wards as well as his own body. He _loved_ that house, and all its exciting nooks and crannies where he could go exploring. Sooner or later finding some interesting magical artefact his parents had either forgotten about or never even known existed.

Like that diary.

That had been _magnificent._ He could project his thoughts on the paper, and remove them again, all without using a single drop of ink.

But... it had belonged to Voldemort in his youth, so when he'd asked father if he could have it...

Well, in hindsight, Draco is glad that father had ultimately decided to say no. As much as Draco still wanted to know if he could have recreated the spells on that diary to create one of his own—and maybe add some extra functions to it, maybe it could have spawned new pages if you started to run out—he's glad that he wasn't in possession of something that had belonged to that monster for any length of time.

Perhaps he could simply... Try to create one of his own anyway. Why would he need to use anything as a template? He could just try to create one from scratch, entirely based on his own ideas.

Excitement flares in his chest, and Draco realises that he'd almost forgotten what that feels like.

What it's like to have something to look forward to.

He stares down at his Defense Against Dark Arts book, his next exam, and swallows.

How pathetic.

Shaking his head and drawing a deep breath, Draco makes a promise to himself: he will create a magic travel diary before he leaves Britain. Who knows if he'll have proper access to quills and ink when he goes to the deepest corners of the world to escape this hell hole. Best if he has something in which he can record his ideas and thoughts...

Perhaps he should make it so that not just anyone can read it either.

Nodding to himself he picks up a quill and quickly scribbles some of his ideas down on and empty piece of parchment.

Later.

  


* * *

  


Draco's unsurprised that Longbottom is in the study group for the Herbology N.E.W.T., he's also entirely unsurprised that Longbottom is the one that has the best grasp on the subject itself. A small part of him, his petty childish pride, smarts that the mere thought of Longbottom being better than him at something, but he pushes it aside.

It doesn't matter how anyone else does on these exams.

The only thing that matters is that Draco passes with flying colours and a high grade-average.

Even so... He's not sure why he keeps being included in the main study group. None of the others seem especially enthused to have him there, but as soon as they all sit down to get started, one of them will shout something like "Get over here, Malfoy, we're starting now!" as soon as he enters the room, regardless of whether or not he was planning on joining them.

Blaise and Pansy seem near ecstatic about it—Pansy had a very overdramatic fake-sobbing moment in Draco's room when she professed to Blaise how proud she was over Draco for socialising with other people. Draco had called her a bint and given her the two fingered salute in return, to which she'd only cackled like a hyena and pulled him into a hug again.

It could, of course, be worse. And it seems like the path of least resistance is simply to go along with the study group that... "wants"... his presence, and try to be as polite as he possibly can instead of driving anyone of them to drink with his _splendid_ personality.

  


* * *

  


When the month finally comes to a close and the exams are all over, and the only thing that remains is waiting for the results, Draco finds himself despondent.

There's nothing he can do now except wait, and he _hates_ it. Everything that happens to him now is entirely out of his hands. He cannot affect his fate at all now.

It reminds him, hideously and horrifically, of those hours during the trial after the witness testimonies when the wizengamot went to deliberate over their fate. Sure, they had called his father in for some clarification or something—Draco hadn't, and still hasn't, asked what about—but besides that, there had been nothing for them to do except wait.

Wait wait wait.

He's been sleeping better during these weeks than he has in the cottage. He thinks it may be because Hogwarts had always been... _safe_.

When the Death Eaters had come inside, it had been because of Draco, and that route is no longer functioning. And the final battle... Well.

As long as Draco stays away from the... the Room of Requirement... he feels mostly at ease in the castle. Despite his misgivings, he hasn't felt any hostility from the old castle or its wards.

Despite his crimes against it.

And then the nightmares return with a vengeance.

  


* * *

  


He's walking somewhere, it's completely dark, and all he can hear is the sound of his own footsteps. He waves his wand, he tries to cast a Lumos, but nothing happens. The air seems stale and he somehow knows that he's somewhere out in the open, despite the smell of the air and complete lack of light. He can barely see the ground beneath his feet.

He keeps walking, slowly but surely looking around to see if anything will change. A shiver runs through him. He cannot shake the feeling that he's being _watched._ It's a feeling he's well acquainted with, however much he wish he wasn't.

"Lumos," he whispers as he moves his wand.

Still nothing, the darkness remains impenetrable.

He keeps walking. Forward, forward, even though absolutely nothing seems to change at all.

And then he hears it.

A second set of footsteps.

There's _someone else_ here.

Draco's breath catches in his throat, and he looks around wildly again. He still can't see anything, but he can _hear_ them.

He speeds up, and his head continues moving frantically from side to side as he desperately trying to catch even the smallest glimpse of his attacker. But there's nothing, even as he can hear the footsteps coming ever closer.

Closer and closer.

Draco finds himself struggling to breathe. He wants to run, but his legs feels heavy, as if he's moving through something thick that hinders his movements,

"Lumos!"

Fear clamps around his heart. He feels like a small animal in front of a large predator, and with his magic unable to even cast a simple Lumos, his only hope is to _run._

And then suddenly strong arms wrap around his chest and stops him in his tracks. A gasp of fear leaves his throat and even as he struggles he's pulled against a strong body. He shivers and shakes at the feeling of a hot breath rushing against his nape as a familiar hissing fills his ears.

His struggles gain increasing fervour and he tries to slam his head back into his attacker's face. The more he struggles, the louder the hissing, until finally he's slammed against the ground so hard his wand flies out of his grasp.

His face scrapes hard against the asphalt, loose rocks uncomfortably pressing into his face. He throws his attacker off and immediately starts crawling after his wand. Even though his magic doesn't seem to work right now, he needs it. He's infinitely more vulnerable without it.

He doesn't get far before rough hands turn him over and slam him down on the ground, his back hitting it so hard he closes his breath. Before he can regain his bearings, a heavy body seats itself across his chest and the hands wrap around his throat.

He scratches against them, nails digging into the skin and occasionally even scratching his own neck in his desperation. The hands press down harder on his throat, unconcerned with the scratches he no doubt leaves in his wake.

He can't breathe.

The hands tighten around his neck, tighter and tighter.

He can't _breathe._

_"What lovely hair you have."_

  


* * *

  


Draco wakes up screaming, his throat hoarse and tears running down his cheeks. The silence rings in his ears when he finally manages to stop the screaming, and it's only broken by his own harsh panting. His throat _hurts._

He pulls his covers up as he tries to stop shaking, tries to stem the flow of tears, to no avail.

He wants his parents. He can't stand the thought that he's _alone._ He hates knowing that no one will come for him, no matter what happens. He's alone, and he will stay alone. He _hates it_. He was alone in the dream and he's alone now.

He would be fine with Blaise or Pansy, even though he doesn't want them to see him like this, like the utter wreck he is. He'd even take one of the Golden Trio if it meant not being alone in the dark right now.

He tries to dry the tears on his cheeks, tries to push away the memory of hands around his neck, squeezing, and the feeling of someone breathing in his ear.

He chokes on his sobs and tries to calm down.

He gets a gold of his wand from the nightstand, and casts a Lumos with a hoarse whisper.

The glow that lights up his wan washes over him, more calming than he would have ever imagined a simple Lumos could ever be. It's just a stupid light spell, but knowing that it works, that _his magic_ works, is like a soothing balm on his frayed nerves.

But it's not enough, not at all. The shaking persists, and he's still struggling with his breathing.

It's too dark for it to be morning, so he knows he needs to go back to sleep, even though he can only barely bear the thought of so much as closing his eyes. He can't sleep like this, and he needs it. He can't, shouldn't, stay awake for the rest of the night.

With a shaking hand he reaches for the calming draught on his bedside table and downs the potion before he can think twice about it.

The calm of the potion sweeps over him, and Draco's breathing finally calms down, though he still shudders a bit.

He lies back down and pulls the warm and heavy quilt up over his shoulders and breathes.

In. Out.

In. Out.

In... Out...

In...

Out...


	6. Chapter 6

Draco stares at the scroll in front of him. He hasn't dared to open it yet, because in it are his N.E.W.T. grades and thus his future is entirely dependent on what it says.

He's in the corner of the common room again, huddled in on himself, hiding his shaking hands in his lap.

The noise level in the room is a loud mix of joy and dismay. So far he knows that Hannah Abbott is crying with joy over the fact that she has E or above in all her N.E.W.T.s—something she apparently needed to become a healer.

Granger has, unsurprisingly, perfect N.E.W.T. grades.

Lovegood is pleased with her grades.

Weasley and Potter seem to be neither pleased nor displeased, but Draco knows he heard something about them becoming aurors anyway due to an exception—of _course_ they'd get special treatment. Draco isn't even sure why he's surprised by that fact. Actually, he's more surprised that they decided to come back at all rather than to go straight to auror training.

"Draacooo," Pansy sing-songs in his ear, suddenly, her hands coming down on his shoulders. He only barely keeps from flinching. "How did it go? Are you safe?" She only whispers the last part, at least keeping in mind that he'd probably not want everyone else to be reminded that he's here on probation with a minimum grade average.

"He hasn't even opened the scroll yet, Pansy," Blaise drawls as he slides into the armchair opposite of Draco's.

"Are you nervous?" Pancy's face softens. "Do you want me to take a look first?"

Draco closes his eyes and thinks about it. He's not sure he wants Pansy to see his grades, but he also doesn't want to look at them himself... But he _needs_ to know.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "You take a look first." He taps his wand against the seal to unlock it, but doesn't make a move to open the scroll. He'll leave it to Pansy, she's sure to get a kick out of being the first one to look at them.

"You'll be fine, Draco. I know you will." She takes the scroll from the table and opens it up, her eyes scanning the text.

Draco glances at her face nervously, sees her lips thin and her eyes widen, and for a brief moment he fears that he failed, that his grade average isn't good enough, that he'll be locked in another year of probation, unable to leave Britain.

But then a wide smile spreads on Pansy's lips and she hits gently over the head with the scroll. "You _would_ get perfect grades and still worry about failing, you dummy." Her voice is warm and soft, so different from how it was during his last days of Hogwarts during the war. He prefers it like this.

He laughs, breathy and high-pitched, almost panicked.

Perfect grades. All Os.

He's free.

"Congratulations, Draco," Blaise murmurs, his eyes warm, and Draco only barely manages to refrain from crying.

He's _free._

  


* * *

  


Auror Spearwood takes Draco back to the summer cottage two days after the results come in. Pansy and Blaise both promised they would come visit, and Draco finds that he's feeling better than he did when he left, even though he doesn't feel well yet.

With a nod of his head Auror Spearwood disapparates and disappears, and Draco heads inside.

"Draco!" mother says as soon as she sees him. She sweeps him into a tight hug, and Draco buries his face in her shoulder, breathing her scent in and feels the tension in his shoulders relax.

"Welcome back," his father murmurs wraps himself around both of them.

It's a rare thing, a hug like this, but it's become far more frequent since after the war. He's always known that his parents love him absolutely, willing to do just about anything for his sake, but they've also always adhered to the pure-blood tradition of being distant in public, and more affectionate in private. Even so, they've never been quite like this. Usually they would hug him one at a time, and never for this long at a time.

He knows that it's because of the war, because they all almost lost each other.

He sinks into the warmth of their embrace, basks in their presence and the smell of them—so well remembered from nights sleeping between them as a child, the greatest of comforts he's ever known.

He misses it as soon as they pull away, even though he knows that it's unreasonable for them to stand in a close embrace for much longer.

"Mipsy has served the food in the dining room, Masters and Mistress." The little house elf curtsies and pops out of existence again—probably to spend some time with the other elves in their sleeping quarters.

"Come my darling," Narcissa says and strokes Draco's cheek before she heads to the dining room, with all the grace she possesses. Draco has always admired how his mother sometimes seems to float as she walks.

"Come, Draco," Lucius says, and keeps his hand on Draco's shoulder as they move to follow Narcissa to have dinner.

The dinner is amazing, just as Mipsy's cooking always is. While the Hogwarts food is great, there's something about the food from home that Draco just likes more, even if it's just for nostalgia reasons. A reminder of better times, before Voldemort invaded the mansion. After all, all the house elves went into hiding on father's orders when Voldemort arrived. Father minimised the risk the family was in by hiding them away and saved them much grief.

"How did your N.E.W.T.s go?" Lucius's voice is calm, but Draco can hear an undercurrent of tension in it. He's worried, of course he is. They all know that Draco's freedom depends on his grade average.

It's almost funny. Before, his father would have demanded a high grade-average simply because he knew Draco's capabilities and expected nothing less than his best. Now, however, Draco suspects he's just worried that the strain of the past years would have cost Draco so much he can't perform as well as he should be able to.

With a small smile, Draco hands his grade parchment over to his father.

Seeing his father's stunned expression morph into a big smile is worth so much. "Perfect marks," he whispers, finger sliding over the parchment reverently.

Draco watches as wonder and relief spreads on his mother’s face, and as his father can't stop looking at the piece of parchment that promises Draco his freedom.

He did it.

He's _free._

  


* * *

  


He receives an owl from the Ministry congratulating him on fulfilling the conditions of his parole regarding his education. The letter also contains a date after which he can come to the auror department to have the monitoring of his wand finished, as the time of his probation will be up as well.

Draco reads the letter over and over. Part of him had thought that the Ministry would pull something to have him under their thumb longer. But no, they really... they really will uphold what they said. As long as he kept up the demands and conditions they placed on him, they would hold up their end.

So unlike Voldemort, who only ever came with new demands and new conditions that needed to be met. Voldemort who was never pleased, never had enough, always wanted more and more... Who always _took_ what he wanted, whether it was freely given or not.

Draco shakes his head and puts the letter down on the table. He leaves it open so that mother and father can read it once they return from the Manor.

For now... For now, Draco has plans to make for a long trip outside of the British Isles, and a travel diary to create.

  


* * *

  


He throws himself into the diary project with an almost frenetic passion. The first bit is easy, he transfigures a very elegant looking book. If his ideas are correct, starting with a book created by magic, rather than by mundane means, will make a lot of difference for the end results.

He has endless ideas for what he could do with the diary. It certainly needs to be ink-free, he needs to be able to write and erase from the book just using his magic, and _wandless_ magic at that, so it cannot require too much of him.

He's not exactly skilled at wandless magic after all.

The thought gives him pause. He's been without a wand, and he knows how helpless it made him feel. He's also always been willing to experiment, always wanted to learn more, wanted to push his boundaries, always wanted to do things just to see if he _could._ So why, exactly, hasn't he given in to any existing urge to try and practice something like wandless or non-verbal magic?

It's difficult, he knows that much, and he's unlikely to ever be able to cast many things with it—he doubts he has the power for that, his strength has always been in his precise control rather than pure power, but he should at least learn how to cast _some_ spells, just to have something to fall back on in case he ever needs it.

He stares blindly at the book in front of him, turning the thoughts over in his head.

He may soon be free from the probation he's been put under by the Ministry since after his trial, but there's no saying what the general public's opinion on him is. Especially since Draco has taken great care to not read the papers lately.

He'd _love_ to not give a flying fuck about what the general masses think, he knows that they're prone to just follow along, or hide themselves, but they're also prone to find strength and be outright vicious when they believe that they have someone strong backing them up. Slytherin's may have a horrid reputation for supposedly just being arse kissers who don't really care who they follow as long as they are in positions of privilege or power.... But Draco is well aware that that same thing is true for _most_ people. They just refuse to admit it.

After all, look at Umbridge. One of the most horrid of people Draco has ever had the misfortune to meet, and she wasn't even a Slytherin [1], just your run of the mill Hufflepuff, supposedly all calm and nice and wooly-headed... But oh so vicious and loyal only to her own ideals.

He wonders if she was _always_ such a horrible person, or if it was being backed by Fudge himself that gave her an outlet for her deepest and darkest desires. Then again, she _was_ the one who had pushed for so much anti-werewolf legislation, which had really worked well for Voldemort.

He's well aware that Slytherin was over-represented among Voldemort's followers, but is it surprising? When almost all of the purebloods in Britain get sorted into that specific house, and parents who will raise children believing in blood purity is much more likely among pure-bloods than half-bloods?

After all... Half-bloods have muggle blood running in their veins, reconciling that with the desire to end all muggles must be a hard sell...

Except... Well, Voldemort himself.

Heir of Slytherin.

Born to a witch and a muggle.

Raised in an orphanage.

Draco tries to imagine how utterly wretched you have to be as a person if you go out to destroy half of what you are. What was it about muggles that made Voldemort hate them so much? It's not like he was abandoned to the orphanage by his muggle father alone...

It was his witch mother who did it.

Draco remembers the way his father's face had gone nearly white when he'd finally searched enough and found the horrid truth that lay in the bones beneath the Riddle house.

Among the first people Voldemort ever murdered.

Draco shakes his head. Now is not the time for this.

Still. Learning wandless and wordless magic is a good idea. Perhaps... perhaps even an animagus form could be good.

If he could turn into an animal... He'd have a body that Voldemort has never touched. A body _no one else_ has ever touched. A body that belongs entirely to Draco and no one else.

He finds the thought very appealing, very appealing indeed. He'll have to look into that as well. But for now... The diary.

Once he finishes that, he can start planning his trip. He's sure to have a lot of downtime throughout to practice wandless and wordless magic.

  


* * *

  


The Ministry looms in front of Draco and his mother, and he finds himself staring at the building, unwilling to simply walk inside. He doesn'tknow what awaits him in there and it worries him. He'd have felt better if father could have come with them, but with the house arrest, he had to stay behind in the summer house.

The trip to the Ministry had been uncomfortable. His mother had side-alonged him as close as possible, but they still had to walk the last bit.

Walk past other people. Walk past staring eyes.

The thing about being a Malfoy, is that you're always very clearly identifiable as a Malfoy.

Draco may have sneered at the Weasleys for being easy to recognise by their red hair, freckles, and hand-me-down clothes, but he knows that his own family is equally easy to recognise through their white-blond hair, pale skin, and expensive, dark clothing.

When he was younger, Draco had always prided himself in the fact that it was so easy for someone to tell who he was. They _should_ know, after all. He's always been vain, he knows as much, he still is, but the vanity is offset by his almost desperate wish to not be noticed.

If he could move around without being recognised, he would have preferred it. It would have saved him a lot of glares and even spitting, _spitting_ of all ghastly things. However, his image has been all over the Prophet due to his trial, so even if his colouring wouldn't give him off, most people likely know his face by now.

People will know him on sight, and as such he's made damn sure that what they will see is a well-groomed and handsome man, as he's always been. He won't show them his turmoil, his fear, or his recent and rather horrifying lack of self-care.

Mother has helped, and she's equally put together at his side, her own blonde hair pulled back in a refined braid for once, likely due to the strong wind, Draco thinks. That's why he made sure to slick his own hair back for once, even though he hasn't bothered to do so for a long time before now.

The wait for his appointment is excruciating. They're forced to sit on uncomfortable chairs in a drab waiting room as people pass them by, openly staring and sneering.

It makes Draco want to sneer in turn, but he refrains.

What do they know, anyway?

Most of them weren't even involved in the fighting. Most of them huddled and hid, safe from the danger.

How dare they cast judgement on _him_ when they know _nothing_ about what it was like to be forced to share his home with the darkest wizard of their time. To share it with someone who clearly wanted _something_ from them, but wielding it as a weapon and biding their time. Slowly but surely breaking them down in the process.

They don't know. They'll _never_ know.

And therefore, Draco knows, they'll never have any right to judge him.

He won't accept it.

He'll leave Britain behind, just for a time, go out in the world and find himself. And then, when he comes back, he'll figure out what to do with himself.

He chokes down a snort.

he could just become a hermit and live off the family fortune for the rest of his life.

But he won't.

He needs to do _something_.

He just doesn't know what yet.

_Yet._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] I'm aware that canon says Umbridge was, in fact, Slytherin. I don't care. I'm resorting her, lmao.


	7. Chapter 7

Draco promises his parents he will make sure to send letters as often as he can. He knows they want to be sure that he's still alive when he's out there in the world. He wishes there was something he could give them to let them know he's fine, but letters will just have to do.

He makes the same promise to Blaise, Pansy, and Gregory as well. He was pleased to hear that Gregory's been doing well, working in a restaurant in Hogsmead, having decided to not return to Hogwarts at all. He'll miss the updates on their lives, but he _needs_ to do this. He needs to leave the isles behind almost desperately. He needs to walk until his feet hurt and he collapses to the ground for a rest.

He takes an international portkey as quickly as he can, leaving Britain behind.

His first destination is France. He has no intention to stay for any long stretch of time, but he knows the language and it's where his family originated. Perhaps finding the very beginning of his roots is a good start for remaking himself.

Wizarding France is... Well, he used to assume as a child that he'd find it amazing and enthralling. But if he's being honest with himself, it's too similar to Britain. Oh, there are differences for sure, they're hardly identical. How could they ever be? Even so, the countries—at least the magical parts of them—have been too closely allied, worked too much together, for them to be different enough for Draco to feel like he's breathing fresh air.

He needs to go somewhere else. Further away.

Somewhere outside of Europe

  


* * *

  


India is very hot this time of year, and Draco finds himself cursing his complexion. His pale hair and skin don't do well in this much sun and heat, and he finds himself almost constantly flushed an ugly pink. He takes to wearing scarves over his head to shield himself from the sun; it has the added benefit of almost working as a form of shield, a way to hide away.

It takes him a while, but he slowly starts making friends with the locals. He enjoys talking to them, enjoys watching their customs, learning more about magic in India and the way it differs from magic in Britain.

"Wands are an amplifier, Draco," Diya says as they sit together in the shade, watching her children play nearby. "They're certainly one of the most effective amplifiers at that, but they're not the _only_ way to amplify a witch or wizard's innate magic." She waves one of her hands as she speaks, and Draco watches the sun glint of her rings and bracelets.

"Jewellery," he whispers, understanding her point. "That's _brilliant."_

Truly, it is. It's easy to be disarmed when all you have is a wand in your hand. But disarming someone from their _jewellery?_ Hardly something anyone in Britain would so much as think of.

"Jewellery." Diya agrees with a smile and a nod. "One of the main reasons wands are so ingenious is because they amplify the magic as the last part of the casting. The magic leaves your body and goes through the wand and is thus amplified. Magic jewellery, however, does not work the same. It's why it's not as effective, and most wear multiple pieces at the same time." She shakes her hand again, making her bracelets clink together with almost bell-like sounds.

"I see," Draco murmurs, stroking his chin in thought. "I assume that the movements for spells become different than they are with a wand?"

Diya smiles, the corner of her eyes crinkling with wrinkles, the look on her face very proud. "Very astute. They do indeed become very different, and in a lot of ways you can see it as wandless casting made simpler." She chuckles. "Though there are ways you can change it further, when you use magic jewellery."

This... _this_ is why Draco came here for. There's nothing at all like this in Britain, and he's so desperate for a change, for broadening his horizons, for escaping the mould in which he was cast.

"Does the metal used play a large difference when creating magic jewellery? How _do_ you create it, do you know?" He wants to know, almost desperately. He wants to find out and pick it apart and understand it.

Perhaps if he had some, he'd never feel unsafe again.

"I know your past, don't think me ignorant of it." Diya's words sends fear skittering down Draco's spine. But before he can do anything as ill-conceived as run, Diya's warm hand clamps down around his wrist, anchoring him in place. "But I have also seen _you._ You're a sweet boy, Draco. And you, as you have been in the many weeks since you first came here, not who you were before, is someone I would teach."

He swallows around a big lump in his throat, and closes his eyes, trying desperately to avoid crying. "Thank you," he whispers. "That would be an honour."

  


* * *

  


The art of magic jewellery making is _fascinating,_ and Draco finds himself entirely absorbed in Diya's lessons. Draco has never studied wand making, but now he finds himself desperately wanting to, just so he can compare it to the making of magic jewellery.

Everything matters, when crafting: the choice in metal, the choice in core—"Where, do you think, the creator of the wand got the idea, Draco? Of course magic jewellery uses magic cores, just as wands do."—the _shape_ of the links, pendants, earrings, or rings.

He asks Diya if hair ornaments work as well, and she smiles with a nod. He wants to make one for his mother, something elegant and understated. He's loved playing with her hair since he was a child.

His own hair has grown in the many weeks since he left Britain. While he takes care to spell away what little stubble he manages to grow—the Malfoy men have never been known for their impressive beards—he lets his hair grow out.

He expected that he would look more and more like his father the longer his hair grew, but as he looks himself in the mirror, brushing his much longer hair back, he finds that he looks far more like his mother than he does his father.

It makes him laugh slightly, how much he takes after her rather than his father. Imagine if he'd taken after her more honeyed blonde than his father's white-blond, his father might just have had a coronary should that have been the case.

He pulls his hair back in what can barely be called a ponytail and heads out to meet Diya again.

He has so much left to learn.

  


* * *

  


Leaving India is bittersweet. He loved his entire stay there, and he promised Diya he would keep in touch and send messages regularly, and while part of him wants to stay longer, a greater part of him feels the itch to move, to go somewhere else and experience _more._ Learn more things, see new sights, meet new people, and broaden his horizons to a greater degree than he ever could if he stayed.

His travel diary has been filled with notes and diagrams about magic jewellery, about the movement—dances—that Diya taught him. He wears much more jewellery now than he ever has before in his life. Two necklaces, an ankle chain around each of his ankles, two bracelets on each wrist, two rings on each hand, and even earrings—he hasn't pierced his ears, instead the earrings are made fit around his lobe, easy to pull off should they get stuck without any risk of tearing his ears.

He spends his evenings alone in his motel rooms, dancing and casting gentle unobtrusive spells.

He laughs.

He's learning his body anew.

He's becoming something else.

He continues to let his hair grow.

He'll never again be the boy Voldemort looked at. He'll never again let anyone have that much power over him.

He'll learn how to leave the past behind, he'll relearn himself, he'll heal.

He _will._

  


* * *

  


He passes through Nepal as he heads towards China. He's taken to using muggle transportation ever since he came to India, at least for the longer journeys. He's found that he likes the down time of sitting on a train, rereading his notes, or just thinking.

He tries new foods, learns new dances, and watching the magnificence of nature as it the train speeds past it.

He's curious about what will come when he finally reaches China. He learned so much in India, and he has no doubt that he will learn as much or more in China.

There's a small girl playing nearby, throwing a ball back and forth with someone who is presumably her mother. The mother looks adoringly at the child, and Draco feels a pang in his chest, suddenly missing his own mother something fierce. He starts writing her another letter in his notebook, the enchantment allowing him to pull out pages with no fear of running out, with the added benefit of his letters being completely unreadable by anyone except who he chooses.

She would _love_ seeing the world, he thinks. As soon as father is off both house arrest and probation, Draco knows he'll push for them to get out. See the world. See what is out there beyond what their parents spoke of.

If there's something Draco became painfully aware of during Voldemort's reign of Malfoy Manor, it's that sometimes, what you've been taught since childhood can be very wrong. Not that his parents ever spoke much about Voldemort himself, no, they only ever spoke of pure-blood superiority. He simply... connected the dots and made his own assumptions.

If Voldemort believed that pure-bloods were better than everyone else, then surely pure-bloods would be safe from his thirst for violence. When reality struck, Draco quickly became aware of how incredibly incorrect said assumption had been.

Voldemort did not care about _anything_ or _anyone_ beyond himself. Perhaps not even his ideals...

Draco has to work hard to keep from scratching at the mark, the _brand_ , on the inside of his left wrist. Oh how he wishes he could be rid of it, how badly he wants it to be _gone._ He'd burn his own skin of he thought it would help...

But father told him, _warned_ him, that the Mark cannot be removed. It makes Draco sick to know that Voldemort's mark will forever be imprinted in his skin, a permanent reminder of how Voldemort once owned him.

He briefly considered cutting his own arm off, just after it was all over. But Draco has always been a coward, and has always shied away from pain. He knows he couldn't do it.

Besides, it would be nothing less than foolish to cut his arm off.

  


* * *

  


Draco loses himself in the apothecaries, walking along entire walls filled with ingredients he's never seen before. He knew, of course, that China is an old culture, older than he can really imagine, so surely their magical community must be equally old, and he _knew_ that when it's so far away from Britain, of course Chinese potions would use different ingredients than British potions... But even so, he's amazed.

He picks up a potions book, at first dismayed that he can't read it since, well, he cannot read Chinese. But the wizard behind the counter quickly smiles at him and opens the first page of the book for him and points at small list of languages. The wizard presses his finger against where it says Français, and Draco smiles as the text in the book changes before his very eyes.

He tries it himself, pressing against where it says English, before he looks up at the wizard and nods. "Thank you."

They actually fall into conversation soon after, the wizard, who introduces himself as Shanming, is actually proficient in English. He had, apparently, thought Draco was French at first, which was why he didn't say anything and simply changed the book's language to French. Draco _does_ speak French, but he prefers using English for the most part.

They speak for a long time about the potions in the book, the different ingredients lining the walls, and the many differences between magical Britain and magical China. Draco would feel bad for taking up all of Shanming's time, but he simply waves it away, his older brother mans the shop too, apparently.

It continues on from there. Shanming also has another brother, a much younger one, who works as a healer at the local hospital. _That_ in turn brings up the topic of Chinese magical medicine, and Draco finds himself going down another rabbit hole, just like he did with the magic jewellery of India.

It starts slow, Shanming's younger brother, Zhiqiang, comes by for tea once when Draco is there, speaking with Shanming who introduces them.

Draco tries to stop himself, but ultimately he finds himself unable to resist the temptation, and soon he's asking question after question regarding how the Chinese treat magical injuries, what potions they use, how ingredients interact with spells...

Zhiqiang seems happy to speak of it, and in fact laughs about how it's good to finally have someone around who's equally interested aside from his brother. Apparently, their parents—though they near retirement age—both run a bookshop without much interest in medicine or medicinal potion making, unlike their three sons [1], so the brothers had mostly only had each other to talk to, except for when they went to school.

Draco listens intently when Zhiqiang describes his work and what he does at the hospital...

... And finds himself falling in love with the idea of being a healer.

Perhaps he can never make up for the harm he's caused, but if he can _heal,_ then perhaps he can give something back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Note that they would all have been born before China's One-Child policy, or even when they were encouraged to only have two.


	8. Chapter 8

Draco is slightly disappointed that Zhiqiang won't teach him more than a few very basic healing spells.

"I'd love to teach you more, Draco, but it's the law. I'm not legally allowed to teach anyone more complex healing spells or even healing potions without a teacher's license." He shrugs one shoulder. "And even then, anyone I was set to teach would need a government approved student license as well."

Draco frowns, but inclines his head. "I understand, Zhiqiang, I'm just slightly disappointed. Can you blame me?" He allows a grin, and Zhiqiang laughs.

"No, no I don't think I can."

Their talks continue, with Shanming and even Yongli, the oldest brother, adding in their own opinions and knowledge as potion masters and apothecaries.

Draco buys the book he first picked up in the shop, fascinated both by its function as well as the many recipes in it. Perhaps, once he's returned to England—and the thought sends a burst of panic through his body, he's not ready, not yet—he can spend some time experimenting with it, trying out some of the recipes.

Of course, the look the brothers give him when he mentions it to them is one of near horror.

"Don't be foolish! You shouldn't do it alone, without instruction! Not the first time!"

He finds himself being bustled into the back of the shop by Yongli, who mutters a long string of Mandarin that Draco can't understand—his Mandarin has certainly improved since he met the Liang brothers, but when they speak quickly like that, he has no hope of understanding what they say—as he leads Draco with a gentle but firm hand on one shoulder blade.

Draco very deliberately smothered the flinch that almost forced itself out of him when Yongli first placed his hand on him. If Draco hadn't seen it coming, he very likely wouldn't have succeeded in hiding it at all.

  


* * *

  


Draco understands why the brothers didn't want him to attempting this on his own. Much like Diya, they likely saw almost instantly how young he is and likely, possibly correctly, assumed his inexperience.

The potions are complicated, but utterly fascinating. He's always loved potion making, it was without a doubt his favourite class at Hogwarts—he feels a pang in his chest when he remembers Professor Snape—and he always was very good at it.

Still, there are a lot of things about the Chinese potions that differ from most of the potions he learned at home. The order of ingredients, the techniques for stirring the cauldron and even how to prepare some of the ingredients he's never even heard of before.

When Yongli and Shanming compliment him on his skills, he cannot help but preen slightly at the praise. _Of course_ he's picking it up fast. He's always been talented. What kind of heir to one of the great pureblood families of Britain would he be if he were not?

The thought comes unbidden, and makes him pause.

He stares blankly in his travel diary, in which he'd been making notes as a shudder runs up his spine.

Isn't that...

That's just the kind of thinking...

He can't quite complete the thoughts.

Something about thinking like that, like he has since he was a small child, suddenly makes his stomach twist and churn.

It's the exact kind of sentiment Voldemort had preyed on to build his power. The exact kind of attitude he'd expected of his followers, the kind of attitude that had allowed for Voldemort to grow as powerful as he did at all.

If he'd had no followers, he would have had no real way of truly gaining the kind of power he'd need to truly rise to power, would he?

Nausea churns, sudden and unbidden, in Draco's gut, and he drops his diary to the floor as he rushes to the bathroom.

He throws up, shaking like a leaf in a gale, tears forcing their way out of his squeezed shut eyes.

He can't think like that.

He _can't._

It's the kind of thing Voldemort wanted him to be, the kind of thinking that... that let everything happen.

Draco can't be like that anymore.

Once he finishes retching, he finds himself collapsing on the bathroom floor, weak as a newborn kneasel, pressing his forehead against the cool tiles.

It's disgusting, absolutely disgusting, for who _knows_ how dirty the floor of a bathroom is, but even so, the chill of the floor is grounding, and he finds himself desperately needing it at the moment.

He cries himself into exhaustion, and falls asleep right then and there, on the bathroom floor.

Hardly behaviour befitting a Malfoy... but is being one even worth anything anymore?

  


* * *

  


The brothers can tell that Draco's upset about something, and like doting uncles—or what Draco assumes doting uncles would be like, it's not like he has any experience with that kind of thing—they try to cheer him up.

If anything, it just makes him feel worse, because he's learned more about the Liang family and he _knows_ that their father is muggleborn. Muggleborn... someone Draco would have _sneered at,_ the way he did Granger back at Hogwarts for years. Sneered, yelled awful things at, _hexed..._ He bullied her, plain and simple, and she deserved none of it.

He starts trying to explain, starts trying to tell them to not have pity—mercy—on him, because he doesn't deserve it. If Voldemort had won in Britain... He would have continued. He wouldn't have let that been enough. He would have spread his hatred and taint across the world, and while China was far, and it would likely have taken him a while to get there...

Draco has no illusions that Voldemort wouldn't have done it.

Nor does he have any doubts that Voldemort would have considered everyone different enough—not British enough—to be _lesser._ Pureblood or not.

He knows that the rest of the world knows about Voldemort, about his madness and war against the British Ministry of Magic, just the same way the world knew of Grindelwald's crimes decades earlier. Dark wizards of the kind of level of Grindelwald and Voldemort don't go silently into the night, they explode their way across the world stage, regardless of whether or not their crimes only take place in a single country.

So he knows that they know, just like Diya had known. But Diya had also known about _him._ About Draco Malfoy's crimes and status as a former Death Eater, regardless of how unwilling or useless he'd been in the role.

But the Liang brothers... they've made no mention of the fact. He cannot deceive them any longer, he's taken enough of their kindness without them knowing the truth. He's deceived them for too long already.

  


* * *

  


He's in quite the state as he tries to explain to them. He struggles with the left sleeve of his shirt, as he stumbles over his words and bites back tears.

They have to _know,_ even if they kick him out. Even if they turn their back on him for the horrible things he did.

It's what he deserves after all.

"Draco. _Draco."_ Shanming closes his hands over Draco's, forcing the shaking appendages to still in his grasp. "We already _know."_

Draco stops breathing, tries to make sense of what Shanming just said. But it... that _can't_ be true. It can't be.

He shakes his head wildly, his hair starting to come out of the small ponytail with how harshly and jerkily his head moves from side to side.

It _can't_ be true.

"You didn't even know I spoke _English_ at first!" he sobs, shivering, but not retracting his hands from Shanming's hold. "You thought I spoke _French."_

If they had known who he was, if they had known from the papers... They would have known he was a British wizard. It doesn't make _sense._

Zhiqiang chuckles slightly, but it's not an especially happy sound. "Your last name is French, Draco. We simply assumed your family was from France."

"W-we are... If you... If you go far back enough. 11th century," he gasps the words out, tries to focus on them instead. On something that's so incredibly insignificant as his home country.

Yongli hums, nodding his head. "Regardless. We knew, Draco. And, I will admit, at first we tested you." His face is grave.

Tested him? He doesn't... He doesn't remember any tests. How could they have _tested_ him without his knowledge?

"What?" he whispers, feeling faint. Shanming's hands are warm and calloused, and Draco finds himself focusing on the strength and thickness of his fingers, of the well-groomed nails, of the healthy skin tone... All of it so very different from... from _him._

"The book you bought," Shanming says, "It has many potions of... well, let's just say they can be used for less than appropriate things. But you paid no attention to them at all, you went straight for the healing potions, for the potions used for useful everyday things..."

"And," Zhiqiang interjects, "You became so enamoured with hearing me talk about healing. If you're wondering where you should take yourself from here-on, where to move forward in your life, what occupation to have... I'd say healer's for you, Draco." He shakes his head and laughs. "I saw the fire in your eyes when I taught you those healing spells. You want to _help_ people, heal them. You can't fake that."

Yongli booms a laugh then. "Besides, dad is a natural legilimens, does it without meaning to, and without knowing that, you treated him fairly and well—no hidden sneers—despite knowing he is muggleborn." He gives Draco a smile that seems... almost fond. "If you'd truly believed, or at least still held those beliefs, well. We'd know. And you wouldn't be here."

The brothers nod to each other, and Draco just doesn't... Doesn't _understand._

How can people forgive him these crimes? How can they look at him, know what he was part of, and still be willing to teach him things?

He'd... he'd say it's because they're not from Britain. Because they _weren't_ directly impacted by the war, the fighting.

But...

His mind goes back to the memory of Luna Lovegood, one of the people who was not only directly affected, but who was actively held prisoner in Draco's home, coming up to him in the common room, asking for his help with the Protean charm. No sneering, no anger... She didn't even ask for an apology.

He hasn't apologised to her, he realises suddenly.

He hasn't apologised to _anyone._

How can he accept kindness, or at the very least absence of cruelty, when he hasn't even openly expressed regret for his actions.

When he knows that he _doesn't_ regret some of his actions.

He can't. Even now, he can't.

His parents are alive, directly because of some of the horrors he committed... and truly regretting them would be regretting that his parents still lives.

He's sorry, he wishes that there could have been some other way... That he could have... done something differently, but still kept his parents safe... But he can't fully regret some of it.

And it makes him ill.

He doesn't know how to come to terms to that, come to terms with the fact that part of him is simply a bad person. He has to be.

The Malfoy family's strong family bonds, caring for family first, has meant walking over the corpses of others.

He shudders, trembles, and finds himself without words.

"Come now, Draco. Have some tea, I have just the right blend for you, I think," Zhiqiang murmurs gently, as the brothers ushers him into the back of the shop, away from prying eyes.

"And then," Yongli says, "You and I are going to make the most potent potion for tranquility and peace of mind I know of."

Draco doesn't deserve this... but he follows anyway.

He allows it.

Too weak, too selfish, to resist.

  


* * *

  


Draco ponders over Zhiqiang's words, lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.

Become a healer?

Could... _could_ he work at St Mungo's?

He bites his lip.

He's found a lot of kind souls during his trip. People who think him a good person, a sweet boy... A child dragged into an adult conflict that he should have been nowhere near... He knows that they see him as such, and he's not sure if they're right. He's not innocent. He was... in part convicted. It must have been in the papers. If they know him, know his name, then there must have been some sort of reporting regarding his specific case.

He shudders.

He hates to think of the fact that he left Britain to go somewhere he wouldn't be known, and yet... Wherever he goes, sooner or later someone seems to know him. Know _of_ him. Know what he _did._

Somehow, the world, large as it is, is too small.

He turns over on his side, and closes his eyes, unsure of what he should do.

He's not ready to go home yet, but he's starting to feel the itch of leaving. As if he's overstayed his welcome in China.

The Liang brothers, like Diya, have told him that they want him to keep in touch once he leaves. They want to know what he does with his life. They... want to keep in touch.

He finds it daunting, he doesn't quite understand why these people are so willing to take him in.

It's not how he was raised.

Always look to yourself first, Draco.

If you cannot help yourself, keep yourself safe, how can you help others?

Perhaps... perhaps that isn't the right way to look at it. Perhaps father was wrong about that too...

But he does want to help others, he thinks.

It may the be the only way he can even come close to making up for what he's done.

And maybe... just maybe... he can go into the healer's academy once he goes back to Britain.

After all, Hannah Abbott was aiming for it, and he took all the same N.E.W.T.s she did, with better grades at that. He should be able to, he truly should.

He falls asleep then, exhausted.

He still doesn't know what to do.


	9. Chapter 9

He stays a few more weeks with the Liang brothers, and tries to get himself together. Tries to make a decision about his future, the future he hadn't really expected could exist.

When he leaves, it's with the knowledge that he'll _try_ to become a healer.

"You'll do fine, Draco," Zhiqiang murmurs as they say their goodbyes at the train station.

Draco feels touched that they came with him, that their _parents_ came as well. He waves his goodbyes to the entire Liang family through the train window and wonders where he will let himself go next.

Where will he go and what will he do now?

  


* * *

  


He makes his way back through Asia, through the middle east, and all the way into Africa.

He continues on through numerous African countries by any muggle transportation he can. He almost stays in Egypt, after all, like China it's a very old country; the magical history of Egypt is enormously long and likely very intriguing... But still he continues on until he finally he reaches Congo.

He's seated in a small nganda restaurant, eating a small meal. He's keeps to himself, and doesn't pay attention to the people around him, until a man to his left suddenly picks up an amulet from beneath his shirt.

"That's spectacular, where did you buy it?" his companion asks him in French, and Draco finds himself straining to hear the answer. He cannot tell for sure, but the amulet looks magical and it piques his curiosity.

"Bought it during a trip to Nigeria, actually. It's supposed to enhance my intelligence," he man says with a rumbling laugh. His companion joins in, and Draco soon turns his attention back to his plate instead.

A magical amulet bought in Nigeria, huh?

He glances at the golden bracelets encircling his left wrist and wonders...

It only takes him the duration of his meal to make up his mind: he decides that he'll go to Nigeria, and takes his first port-key since he left Britain. He's curious enough to forgo muggle travelling for now.

He's seen a lot of new things as he's passed through many countries before he finally arrived in Nigeria, even with the magical short-cut at the end. He's not sure why he hasn't decided to stay for a longer period of time somewhere else before he happened to overhear those men talking about the amulet, but... something in the way the magic around him feels, makes him feel like he's made the right choice.

He goes on his way, blending in with the tourists as he takes in the country. The rainforest is magnificent, and he's sad to hear about the rather alarming rate of deforestation the country is undergoing... But it's not his place to get involved with that, not even close.

He continues on his way, letting the days turn out as they will, letting his magic guide him to where he should go.

It's odd, he's never felt this in tune with his own magical core before, as if he's finally allowing it room to breathe, simply by being somewhere else, somewhere that isn't Britain.

He finds that he rather likes the feeling...

Will it go away once he returns home?

  


* * *

  


Draco ends up meeting Ojo and Yetunde since they have a small shop in one of the magical areas boasting about enhancement amulets.

He's seen quite a few stands selling them before, so he's not sure why he walks inside their store, what makes it different, he honestly just liked the decorations in the windows of the shop.

It's Yetunde who greets him the first time, and she's happy to answer his questions about the amulets, about whether or not they _actually_ work, or if they're more of a tourist trap type of thing.

Despite the quite possibly insulting question, Yetunde had just laughed at him and waved her hand. "Oh, they're real. But the properly made ones, by the old traditions, are always made with a specific person in mind. They're always made _for_ someone." She smiles again. "The ones you see on the streets will work, but they won't be nearly as effective as the properly made ones."

Of course, the brief explanation just prompts more questions. Draco wants to know _everything._

"You're a curious one, I see." She nods her head before she turns towards the back of the shop. "Ojo! We've got a customer who wants to ask you some questions!"

Ojo turns out to be Yetunde's brother, and he's just as helpful, just as quick to laugh, as Yetunde herself.

Draco keeps his questions mostly generic, about how the amulets work and what the goal is when you make one.

"The magic is in the ancient symbols you carve into the clay," Ojo says and gestures to the amulet around his neck. "You can make an amulet for just about anything you can think of, depending on what symbols you combine. Magical strength, good health, potency... You name it."

Draco briefly turns his attention to his travel diary as he makes some notes, before he looks up at Ojo again. "So, can you only wear one at a time, as you do? Or can you, for example, wear one for good health and one for peace of mind?"

Ojo shakes his head and strokes his chin. "No, you can only wear one at a time. A lot of the art comes down to knowing what you truly need. If you wear multiple, they will come into conflict with each other and break."

"I see. That's _fascinating._ Do you know why that is?" Draco looks at Ojo's amulet, wondering what it's meant for, but does not ask for fear of being rude.

"From what we've been able to find out through research, each amulet gives off a sort of magical frequency that permeates the body of the wearer. Two frequencies clashing leads to vibrations in the clay that breaks it apart."

Draco takes a sip of water and dabs his handkerchief across his forehead. "I see."

He bites his lip and wonders if he should...

"Do you have another question?" Yetunde says, startling Draco slightly. He didn't think she'd been listening, there had been a stream of witches and wizards coming in and picking up amulets from the store—likely ordered in advance.

"If I wanted to order amulets, how much would they cost and how long would it take?" He takes another sip of water.

Ojo smiles, nodding his head. "Depends on how many, what you want them for, and the intended recipients."

Draco squirms slightly, wondering what he should ask for. He wants one for his mother and one for his father, and preferably one for himself as well... But what would he ask for?

The memory of his parents, pale faced and worried, rushing into his room at night, their tight hugs and reluctance to see him leave Britain at all suddenly makes itself known to him and Draco feels his hands shake. Peace of mind, he'd said before...

"Two amulets for peace of mind... For my parents, and..." he trails off. What does he need? Peace of mind, certainly. But is that what he needs the most? If he wants to become a healer... Oh. "And one that enhances your healing spells, if possible, for me."

Yetunde makes a whistling noise. "You're a healer?"

Draco shakes his head ruefully. "No, not yet. But I hope to be." He does, he does hope that he'll be able to. Zhiqiang thought he should, and all of the Liang brothers believe that he can... And if he mentions it to Diya, she'll probably agree with them, knowing her.

He shrugs a shoulder and finds himself opening up, just a bit, to the two of them. There's just something about the open curiosity on their faces, tempered by kindness and laugh wrinkles. "I've been travelling around the world, trying to... find myself, learn about other cultures and their magic." He squirms slightly. "I needed to get away from Britain for a while."

The two siblings nod their head in understanding.

"I imagine. It hasn't been that long since that Dark Wizard started a full on war against your Ministry, has it?" Ojo strokes his chin.

"It's been about a year and a half since it ended," Draco murmurs, eyes downcast, and finds himself squeezing his own forearm, just where the Dark Mark rests.

He bites his lip. He should probably warn them, give them the possibility to reject his request for three amulets on the basis of his past.

"Does your arm hurt? Did you injure it in the war?" Yetunde looks concerned, and reaches for him. "You're so young, did you fight in it?"

Draco flinches, but lets Yetunde take his hand anyway.

"Not... not exactly... I..." It's been months, he still has nightmares—though less so now that he's out of Britain—and he still doesn't know how to speak about it.

Ojo frowns at him, but then he draws in a sharp breath when Yetunde pulls up Draco's shirt and exposes the Dark Mark.

Draco flinches away from it, can't stand to look at it. He _hates_ that Voldemort's mark is burned into his skin forever. That Voldemort will always have some form of hold on his body, even in death. He _hates_ it.

"You were on the dark wizard's side." Yetunde's lips press together as she stares at the mark on his arm. Draco can't meet her eyes.

"He took up residence in my family home and threatened me with my parents' lives," he whispers, "But yes... I was..." Even if he had his reasons, they're not excuses. He still... "I chose the life of my family over that of strangers." He pauses briefly. "As my parents did before me."

Much of what he knows, much of what he is, he's learned from his parents. He's since learned that some of it is wrong, but his parents, their opinions, and their love, is still the very foundation of who he is as a person. They were his first teachers, and until very late in his life did he meet an authority figure who disagreed with said teachings.

It wasn't _just_ his parents saying that purebloods are better that taught him that, it was the way he saw society react to purebloods, the privilege they held, they way people spoke...

He learned it and saw it repeated and agreed with on multiple places, not just his family home... So ho was he supposed to know that it was wrong?

He knew them as facts, not opinions.

But he's learned, that even though they are opinions that have been held by both sides of his family for centuries... they're wrong. Wrong, and besides that have given rise to some horrible things—like Voldemort himself.

"I'm surprised you let us see this. Let us know." Ojo's face is grave, and Draco can see the suspicion carved in his face.

Draco lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, feeling exhausted even though it's hardly been a long conversation. "You deserve the right to be able to refuse my request for the amulets. I'd like to learn more about them, but I'm not going to demand something like that. From hearing you talk on the topic, I know how important it is to you."

Yetunde hums. "And these other things you've learned? Did you tell your other teachers the truth?"

Draco lets out a hollow chuckle, completely devoid of true humour. "They knew. They even recognised me, recognised my name, I mean."

Ojo nods his head slowly, gaze far away. "Come back tomorrow, and tell me more about your other teachers."

"I understand," Draco whispers and bows his head towards them, before he gently takes his wrist from Yetunde's grasp and pulls his shirt down again to cover the mark that mars his forearm.

"Goodbye," he says before he leaves the shop, closing the door gently behind him.

  


* * *

  


He's lucky he doesn't have any alcohol in the small room he's renting, as he's sure his liver wouldn't appreciate him drowning his sorrows in it. He shouldn't be feeling this bad, he's been luckier than he has any right to be with the people he's met. All of them so forgiving of his part, and even Yetunde and Ojo haven't done anything like what Draco would expect of a witch or wizard in Britain to do.

He doesn't think it's because people outside of the UK is simply all better people—though it is possible that Draco has just been extremely lucky in the people he's met—but likely more to do with the distance, both geographical and emotional, they have to the events.

Britain is hardly the centre of the world, and what happens there does not necessarily affect the rest of the world at all.

He takes the time to write and send letters instead, there's no point in wallowing.

Either he'll be allowed to buy amulets from them, or he won't.

Regardless of which outcome it will be, it's out of his hands now.

He begins with a letter for Pansy, continues with one for Blaise, Greg, mother and father's letter quickly follow.

Unfortunately it takes him nowhere near as long as he'd have liked, and it's still very early in the day, too early to sleep.

He stares at the paper, considers the past, and then makes a decision.

He writes one letter of apology to Luna Lovegood, and one to Mr Ollivander. He apologises for what they suffered during those weeks, and that he did not and could not help them more than he did.

He sends the letters off before he can change his mind, and is relieved that they cannot reply.

Whether they accept his apology or not, they are under no obligation to reply to his letters.

Perhaps it's even better if they don't.


	10. Chapter 10

He comes back the next day, just like Ojo told him to. He feels awkward and unsettled at first, sitting there talking about his trip so far. However, he soon loses himself in talking about it, he brings up his notebook and start showing Yetunde and Ojo some of his diagrams and pictures. He points to the jewellery he's wearing, explaining why he chose to make them as he did—

_Triangle shaped links in a bracelet for extra strong defensive spells._

_Unicorn hair in the ankle chains, coupled with the circular shape for strong attacks, to make for strong offensive magic when in defence of someone else, the unicorn hairs properties changing the pure power and offensive capabilities of the circle._

_The earrings he made on the way towards Africa, the shape and unicorn hair core making them excellent for casting healing spells._

—while keeping the secret of it out of respect to Diya. He doesn't tell them _how_ to make magic jewellery, the same way Ollivander explaining the materials of a wand doesn't tell you how to become a wandmaker, but he still shares much of the general theory.

He continues to talk about his fascination with Chinese potion making, especially the potions for health and peace of mind, constantly drawing comparisons with the way it works in much of Europe.

He hasn't realised how much he wanted to talk about what he's learned with someone, not just through a letter, but actually speaking, where someone can ask him questions, ask him to clarify... simply make sure he knows someone's _listening._

He loses track of time as he talks until suddenly Ojo breaks out into loud laughter, gently slapping him on the back.

It breaks Draco out of the small trance he'd gone into as he talked, and he blinks in surprise, looking around the room. He has no idea why Ojo is laughing, but Yetunde is smiling as well.

"I... I'm sorry, did I say something funny?" Draco bites his lip, unsure whether or not he sounds snide, but neither Ojo nor Yetunde stop smiling.

"Not at all. You just simply... Well, it's refreshing to see that kind of enthusiasm. Especially for magic from cultures that aren't your own."

Yetunde nods in what seems to be agreement. "You've proven my first impression of you correct. You _are_ a curious one."

Draco finds himself flushing, though he's not sure why. He doesn't really have anything to feel embarrassed about.

"Well, I certainly feel comfortable enough to let you buy some amulets, as long as you're asking for what you did the first time." Ojo shares a look with his sister, who nods.

Draco blinks in surprise, unsure what prompted the... change? Even so, he nods. "Yes, I'd like an amulet for enhancing healing spells for myself... And two amulets that promote peace of mind for my parents."

Yetunde strokes her chin. "I can see why you ask for yours, since you wish to become a healer. But why peace of mind for your parents? Were they so horribly involved with the dark wizard that guilt now eats away at them?" Her facial expression is dark, and Draco winces slightly.

"That... I don't know. I just..." He sighs. "They worry about me. A lot." He bites his lip and looks away, idly scratching and the inside of his left arm. "I've had screaming nightmares ever since the war ended. I've woken them up more times than I care to think about and every time they would rush to my side, pale as ghosts, terrified for me..."

"And you don't want them to worry about you?"

"Not as much as they do." He shrugs one shoulder again, not really want to get further into the details. He's already spoken to them about more personal things than he'd honestly like... Especially since he doesn't know them. They're not Diya or her husband. They're not the Liangs. They're complete strangers.

And yet... Something about their jovial way set him at ease, even though they're clearly disturbed by the revelation of his past.

He should have expected nothing less, really.

  


* * *

  


The amulets are beautiful, and Draco holds them up towards the light to be able to admire them, one by one.

"I wonder how they interact with magic jewellery," he murmurs and puts his amulet on.

There's no immediate change, which he takes as a good sign. If the amulet had interacted with his jewellery the way it would another amulet, he would have known by now, surely.

Wanting to test it, he pulls up one of the legs of his trousers to show off a rather nasty looking bruise from when he walked into a dresser the other day. It's the perfect little test subject.

"Espikey," he murmurs with a wave of his hand, and to his excitement, the big bruise fades away to nothing. "Brilliant!" he gasps, absolutely delighted to see how well the amulet merged with the magic jewellery.

He has little worries about wands, as they've spread across the world and he's seen bot Yetunde and Ojo use one... But the confirmation that it will work with magic jewellery as well has him smiling.

"It worked, I take it?" Yetunde says, sounding amused. A smile plays on her lips, and if Draco didn't know better he'd almost think it was fond.

"It did, absolutely excellently. I wish I could test it more, but I'm not a trained healer and I hardly want to cause injuries simply to see if I can heal them."

Ojo snorts. "Appreciated."

They share some tea, and Draco allows himself to relax.

  


* * *

  


Despite how the siblings relaxed to his presence once more, Draco is still surprised to be invited back to the shop when he passes by one day, just looking around the magic district to see what else it holds. He had expected them to wash their hands of him now.

Yetunde waves him in from the door, and Draco, looking around to make sure she wasn't waving to someone else, makes a small nodding bow with his head and joins her.

It turns out that they have more questions about what he learned in China, and Draco happily talks about the potions and healing spells, and even the potion ingredients he encountered there.

Ojo nods. "You should speak with our cousin Ayodele. He's a healer here, I'm sure he could teach you many new things as well."

Draco startles and looks rapidly between the two siblings, uncertain about why they're offering. They've already given him more than he deserves, friendly faces and they let him buy three amulets.

"I... I would very much enjoy that, I think," Draco murmurs and accepts a cup of tea from Ojo. He takes a sip, enjoying the taste, and allows himself to relax again.

"It's very refreshing to see someone so curious, you know. And I would very much like to hear you trade ideas with Ayodele."

Draco finds himself flushing, not sure how else to react, so he thanks Yetunde and takes another sip of tea.

  


* * *

  


When Draco first meets Ayodele, he can clearly see the family resemblance he holds with Yetunde and Ojo. There's something in the shape of their noses and the jawline... Though, of course, the resemblance is closer between Yetunde and Ojo.

Ayodele, unlike his cousins, is a calmer presence. He doesn't smile as much, not does he laugh as freely, but he has a soothing presence. There's something about him that seems to invite trust.

And to Draco's absolute excitement, he's very knowledgeable within the art of healing.

He loses track of time as they trade ideas and speak, and he finds himself hanging on to Ayodele's words as he describes potions and healing theories and spells.

He doesn't ask to be taught anything, he finds that it's enough to just have it explained to him, to be allowed to ask questions.

He's explaining some diagrams in his travel diary, explaining a potion that Yongli and Shanming had taught him when—!

The noise is familiar, an exploding hex, rage, a sudden loud crash—battle, war, death. He flinches away from the noise so hard he falls off his chair.

He lands hard on the ground, his heart in his throat, and pulse loud in his ears. He feels how harshly he's forced his eyes open, but between the shock to his system and his gasping breaths, he finds himself unable to relax.

It was just someone miscalculating a stinging hex, and sending a whole stack of crates crashing to the ground, just outside the shop.

Draco's ears ring, and he tries to relax, tries to calm his breathing, tries to come back to the present.

A hand on his shoulder—

_"Draco_ , _" a voice hisses in his ear_

—and he flinches away again, banging his head on the table. The sudden pain is grounding, but his ears are ringing and he can't hear anything but his own heartbeat mismatched with it.

"Draco?" Yetunde's face comes into his line of vision, her hand clearly visible and reaching out for him, but not touching. "Draco, are you alright?"

It feels like he has to drag his thoughts through stone, but he tries to slow his breathing. Each breath shudders and he finds himself reaching for his belt with a shaking hand.

"Draco? What are you doing?" Ojo crouches next to his sister, his face equally worried.

Draco gets the flash of calming brew out of his small belt pouch, uncaps it with a shaking hand, and downs it before anyone can stop him.

"Draco!"

The potion works quickly, as it's meant to, and Draco finds himself relaxing, his heartbeat slowing.

"I'm fine," he says, voice strained and hoarse. "I'm sorry."

"What was that potion, Draco?" Ayodele's brows are drawn together.

Draco feels... smothered, in a way. Crowded into a small space. If not for the calming brew rushing through him, he'd likely feel hunted and maybe even lash out.

"Just a calming brew," he says, swallowing and sighing slightly. "It's a non-addictive formula, usually prescribed for patients with... With PTSD or anxiety."

Ayodele crosses his arms over his chest. "I see. I assume a doctor prescribed them to you after the war?"

Draco opens his mouth to lie, to tell him that yes, absolutely, a doctor prescribed them. But he closes his mouth and shakes his head instead. "I... have not gone to see a doctor since the war. I make the potion myself." He closes his eyes, unwilling to meet their gazes any longer.

He _knows_ it's irresponsible, but it's all he has.

"Draco."

He shakes his head. "It's fine. I'm fine."

He opens his eyes to see concerned and displeased faces, but he doesn't allow himself to back down. He can't go to a healer to get help, because he simply can't trust them. He can't trust _anyone_ with his potions, not right now.

Not until he's no longer one of the least desirable wizards in Britain.

If that will ever happen.

Yetunde sighs and shakes her head, but they all move back and let Draco get back to his feet.

Ojo looks like he's about to say something, ask a question perhaps, but he closes his mouth, thoughts unspoken, and pours Draco another cup of tea instead.

  


* * *

  


He spends a few weeks mostly hanging around Ojo and Yetunde's shop, people watching, talking magical theory, or discussing healing with Ayodele. He watches as people come and go, picking up amulets that all look different—wonderfully intricate designs that Draco could only dream of replicating.

He feels at ease here, finally. Which, he assumes, is why he feels like it's time to leave. Time to go somewhere else, see something new.

Perhaps... perhaps he should head back to Egypt.

See the sights, learn more about the no doubt extensive and ancient magic.

Learn more about... everything.

Himself.

Magic.

The world.

Cultures different from his own.

He almost laughs when he thinks of how sheltered he's been. What a small piece of the world he's lived in and thought was all of it.

All that mattered at any rate.

It's hard to think of it now, but he realises that the small vacation trips he took with his parents during the summers as a child—most of them in Europe—were nowhere near enough to impart on him truly how large the world is, and how wonderful the sheer variety of things and people that exist within it.

He'll make his parents travel, as soon as he can get into the healer's academy to pursue what has, under the months he's been away, truly become his dream.

He wants to do good.

He wants to do _better._

He wants to move forward, _with_ his parents, even if he has to drag them with him, kicking and screaming.

He almost laughs at the thought, but he knows how much they love him.

They ran through a battle field entirely unarmed and unable to protect themselves, just to find him. To proceed to wrap themselves around him as human shields, even though he, clutching his mother's wand, was the only one capable of protecting himself.

He can make them come around, he thinks.

One way or another.

  


* * *

  


He tells Yetunde and Ojo of his plans of heading to Egypt, and thanks them profusely for their hospitality, for letting him buy amulets from them, and for explaining the theory behind them. For showing him the art of what they create.

Ojo tells him to write.

Yetunde ruffles his hair.

With a wave of his hand, Draco heads out into the strong midday sun to head to the nearest international travelling site to order a port-key to Egypt.

He has so much left to see.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for the comments!

The Egyptian Museum in Cairo is rather spectacular, Draco has to admit. He wonders how many of the artefacts being stored there are magical, or if, perhaps, the Egyptian Ministry of Magic has managed to get the muggle ministry to hand over all magical artefacts to them and keep only the muggle objects for themselves.

It would be a rather good idea to have such a split, but then again, it's also possible that both muggles and wizards visit the museum. Draco honestly has no idea.

He walks among the objects on display and marvels. The craftsmanship is absolutely amazing, the details exquisite, and as he wonders at the patience some of it must have taken when created without magic. He thinks then of the pyramids and the great temples found in Egypt, all of them built entirely by muggle methods. Even if some of the people wishing them raised were wizards, the magic of the ground they were placed on meant that no magic could be used in the raising, only once the structure stood—to create wards.

He takes a few pamphlets to read as he moves through the rooms, wanting to get some deeper information of the different artefacts in the museum.

He idly considers the fact that he's never gone to a muggle museum in Britain. He's never really had interest in non-magical history...

But there's just something about this trip. He's learning so much about other magical communities, other magical cultures... and yet, he knows nothing about the other culture that lies closest to his home. He knows _nothing_ about muggle Britain. He didn't even take muggle studies when he was at Hogwarts. He'd never seen the need for something like that.

After all, the statue of secrecy was in place for a reason. Wizards and muggles should avoid each other as much as possible, shouldn't they?

Throughout his life, he's heard numerous ministry employees talking about how muggles would fear wizards if they knew magic was real, how muggles must be spared, kept safe... And all he remembers is his father's stories, the stories in the many history books he's found around the mansion, about when _wizards and witches_ were persecuted by muggles.

It feels odd to not even acknowledge the fact that the statue of secrecy was most likely created to keep magic folk safe from muggles and not the other way around.

The part of him that still clings to his teachings as a pureblood, as one of the once most highly esteemed bloodlines in Britain, sneers at the thought that wizards could have anything to fear from _muggles..._ But he also knows that there's simply so many more muggles than there are wizards... And no doubt has muggles created their own weapons.

The thought sends a shiver down his spine.

He shakes his head and tries to clear his head. Such dark thoughts have no place right now. He should finish his tour of the museum. he can be maudlin when he's back in the hotel instead.

  


* * *

  


The magic streets of Egypt are nothing like Diagon Alley. They're larger for one, and busier.

Draco walks among the shops, looks at the stalls and in the windows. There's so much to see and so little time. At least in a single day. Considering how long he's been on this trip already, considering he's still not ready to go home, he does have almost all the time in the world.

He finally sees an apothecary and hurries inside. His love of potions hasn't deserted him simply because he's aiming to become a healer rather than a potions master, after all.

Besides, he wants to see if there are any similarities between Egypt and China, or if there will be an equal amount of new ingredients or ways of brewing as he discovered when he was in China.

Just like in the Liang brothers' shop, there are both books and ingredients. He looks at the walls and smiles to himself, he'll no doubt find enjoyment and fascination in any Egyptian potions book he picks up. His fingers almost seem to itch at the prospect of picking one up and turning the pages so read about potions after potion, ingredient after ingredient.

The woman behind the counter gives him a smile as he enters. He nods his head towards her and heads for the books first.

Some of them seem to be the same as the ones he'd find in Britain, much like some of the books in the Liang brothers' shop. The thought gives Draco a slight pause. Are... other countries simply better at stocking a varied amount of books, or is wizarding Britain just good at inserting itself in other cultures? Because he's certainly never seen an Egyptian or Chinese potions book in Diagon Alley...

That's a thought though. Perhaps you'd need to _order,_ or ask for the books specifically. It _is_ possible that such books could be found somewhere in the back of the shop, perhaps, in a store room, rather than on the shelves, simply because there wouldn't be as large a demand for them.

Especially not if there are a lot of special ingredients you're going to have a hard time finding in Britain.

Most regular wizards of the non-potions master variety is unlikely to care overly much about complicated potions from other cultures that requires a lot of imported ingredients. Probably.

Draco suddenly finds himself wishing he could have seen Professor Snape's collection of potions books. He must have had _a lot_ of fascinating books there, Draco just knows it.

He wonders who inherited from Professor Snape... The man didn't... Didn't have a family.

He shakes his head to clear it, he doesn't want to think about these topics in public. He's still a Malfoy, still a pureblood, and some things are simply best kept private. Even if he's trying to move away from some aspects of pureblood culture—blood purity, disdain for anyone who isn't a pureblood, so many other things that Voldemort preyed on—there are some things that are simply how he was raised, that aren't bad in and of themselves.

Being a private person is perfectly acceptable, Draco thinks.

Besides, it's not like that's limited to purebloods anyone. Many half-bloods and muggleborns are private as well, surely.

He turns his attention back to the books and moves the titles that seem of little interest until he finds one that has a beautifully intricately designed front page. It looks both old and in pristine condition at the same time and he opens it up with barley concealed enthusiasm.

He almost loses track of time as he browses the book, recipe by recipe, ingredient by ingredient, until a cough wakes him from his reverie.

The woman behind the counter looks amused, and Draco finds himself flushing. Of course he can't stand around reading the merchandise like this.

He takes the book to the counter and buys it. He's only a bit in, but he's already in love with it.

He'll have a lot of fun reading tonight.

  


* * *

  


He leaves the apothecary and continues on his way down the street. A glint of metal catches his eyes and he finds himself by a jewellery shop. Magic jewellery.

He stops himself from gaping. _Of course_ India isn't the only culture that would have used magic jewellery. Diya had said that the creator of the wand had been inspired by magic jewellery, but she'd never said that it was unique to India. Though perhaps that specific version of it is. Just like there are multiple ways to make wands, different preferred woods, different preferred cores, of course there must be different ways and methods for magic jewellery as well.

He heads inside before he can even think twice of it.

The shop is magnificent and he was right, it certainly looks different from what he saw and learned of in India. There are many similarities in metals, of course, but there are many differences when it comes to shapes and the use of gems. Most of the jewellery in the Egyptian shop seems to be based on the type of jewellery he saw in the museum, based on jewellery from ancient Egypt.

He ends up in a rather long conversation with the man behind the counter, showing his own jewellery, explaining where he learned of it and what tradition its based on. The man pays in kind and tells Draco more about Egyptian magic jewellery and many of the ways it's still widely used in modern magic Egypt—contrasting with the way it was used in ancient Egypt.

Draco wishes he could have the time and possibility to learn more about it, but there seems to be something inside him that says it's nearing time to move on from Egypt in general.

That it's time to leave Africa entirely, perhaps.

  


* * *

  


He looks through his travel diary and the many notes in it. He'll never run out of space, he's so glad he managed to create the diary as he wanted, that he didn't end up forced to give up on some of the details he wanted from it.

He's certain it's better than Voldemort's old diary anyway.

Draco has loved the few weeks he's spent in Egypt, finding and comparing and discovering, but he feels an itch to move somewhere else.

He picks up a large world map and stares at it, uncertain of where he should go next. He can see the path he's travelled marked out on it, all the stops he's taken and for how long he was in each particular place marked out clearly.

It will be a good memory to keep with him, he knows. Perhaps he will simply frame it and put it up in his room once he returns home, as a reminder to himself of what he's done, what he's accomplished, what he's experienced.

He smiles as he strokes a hand gently over the map before he goes back to considering his next destination.

He left Europe behind almost immediately, though he's heard that the different regions can be quite different, more than just individual countries. He knows of course that there's a wide variety even among Western Europe, but... Well, perhaps he should head to Eastern or Northern Europe just before he heads back to Britain?

Later, he decides. He's still not ready to contemplate going back to Britain, even though he's been away for what is approaching a year now.

A year.

No wonder his hair has started to truly get long, he thinks with a rueful laugh.

It's almost been a year since he saw his parents last.

He misses them, he does... But he's not ready yet. He simply isn't.

He looks at the map again.

Perhaps... somewhere in South America?

With a small smirk he pics up a small nut from his food bowl and holds it over South America on the map. He drops the nut and watches as it bounces and rolls, before finally stopping.

He looks at where it finally landed and smiles to himself.

"Peru it is."

He starts to pack his things together. Having magic, being able to shrink everything down to fit in a small backpack is incredibly convenient. Especially since he's crossed paths with quite a few muggle travellers with their absolutely enormous and heavy looking packing. Not something he envies them _at all._

He hums a small tune his mother used to sing as she made the finishing touches of the ball room before an important event—familiar, nostalgic.

He should write letters to everyone before he goes to bed.

  


* * *

  


As he signs his final letter, to Greg, Draco finds himself staring at the many pages with a small sense of unease.

He's... learned a lot, these past months he's been away. Enough that he realises that he owes a lot of people some rather long apologies. He's already made two, one to Mister Ollivander, and one to Luna Lovegood—he wonders if they read the letters, or if they burned them without opening them at all—but he knows that there are several people he owes a lot of apologies to: Potter, Granger, and Weasley especially.

The thought of sending them letters... letters with _apologies,_ almost makes him laugh hysterically at the mere notion.

Surely they would just burn them without reading.

Well, perhaps not Granger, she always were very curious... nosy even...

Draco bites his lip. Even _if_ they burn the letters he should still try. He should still send letters.

To Granger especially. Some of what he did to her... Well, Voldemort would have been pleased, and that alone is enough for Draco to want to retch and take it all back—publicly.

However, that is a chance he knows he will never have. He also knows that even if he _should_ get the opportunity to apologise to Granger in front of all the people who've seen his horrid actions towards her, he is too cowardly to do it.

Draco has learned a lot about himself, during his travels. He's started to reach for feelings he long since buried, feelings he couldn't allow himself to feel—especially not when his actions were encouraged by the adults he most looked up to in his life—and he knows himself to be as far from brave as you can get.

Everything he did during the war was for his own selfish survival, and to ensure the survival of his parents.

He simply took the path of least resistance, scheming and looking out for himself.

Once he might have been proud of that, now he is not.

He clings instead to the few moments of defiance he had. The few things he did unselfishly to help the _right_ side, even if it wasn't _his_ side, at the time.

He didn't name Harry Potter, even though he recognised him.

He'd looked at him, had _known_ who he was, and found that he could not let himself give in and give him up.

Then and there, in that moment, he had realised that he didn't want Harry Potter to die.

Not just in the sense that he'd wanted to be rid of Voldemort, and Harry Potter was the only hope of that to ever happen... But also in the more personal sense that Draco absolutely _didn't want Harry Potter specifically_ to die.

He swallows and picks up his travel diary. He opens it to an empty page, places his finger on said page, and begins his letter.

Pride be damned, he will make his apologies.

Be they received or not.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope anyone who reads this enjoys the latest update as well!

Peru ends up being more of a general sort of exploration. He blends in with the muggle tourists for a lot of the time he spends there, seeing the sights, doing a lot of hiking, and generally just allowing himself to _be._

He still wants to learn, he knows he still has a lot to learn about the world in general, but right now he feels the need to take a short break—just to see something he's never seen before. To just walk around and do nothing.

Eat, sleep, watch the world walk past him as he stays in one spot, resting both his mind and his soul.

He's been gone long enough that he's starting to get homesick.

He misses his friends, he misses his parents so much it almost feels like the loss of a limb, and he even misses the _Manor,_ even though he's not sure if it's been properly cleansed yet, even though he still fears going back there on some level. It was his home for so long, one of the most important parts of his life, and he utterly abhors how it was taken from him by a maniacal monster of a man, hell-bent on genocide and world domination.

Draco knows his parents, however. He knows that they'll stop at nothing to make the manor a place where they can be a family again.

He wonders how they've felt as they've guided ministry workers through the rooms and halls. Has it been a relief, or a horrible imposition for them? Did his father do it because he _wanted_ to, or did he do it because he believed it would give them all a greater chance of escaping Azkaban?

Draco doesn't know, and he's still too afraid to ask.

Perhaps he'll have the courage once he returns home after his trip.

Perhaps.

Time will tell, and for now, Draco allows himself to just rest and relax. Allows himself some peace and quiet... and lots and lots of letter writing.

Not just to his family and friends at home, but also to the amazing people he's met during his travels.

Perhaps one day in the future he'll do it all again, go back and see them all again, one place at a time.

Putting his hair up in a messy bun, Draco laughs at the thought. He hasn't even gone home yet and he's already considering a new trip.

He _must_ make sure mother and father go see the world.

He wants them to get out of Britain as well, to see new sights, and horizons far beyond Europe.

Spelling away what little stubble he has, Draco appraises himself in the mirror.

Spellwork and proper creams has kept him safe from the sun, but he can still see a hint of pink on some of the areas that are most affected. He'll have to be even more careful unless he wants to burn.

It is an unfortunate fact of life that Malfoy skin only comes in three shades: pale, pink, and red as a cooked lobster, the last of which is quite painful, and not something Draco is in any hurry to experience again. One time when he was nine years old was quite enough for him.

The bags under his eyes are far less pronounced than they were before he left, he thinks and allows a small smile. He's been sleeping better and he hasn't needed nearly as many sleep draughts since leaving. Less potion drinking can only be good for him, he thinks and his smile widens.

Brushing some dust off the shoulder of his robe, Draco nods to his reflection and slips his wand into his sleeve.

Time to take a trip to the local magical community. It's time to discover what magical Peru has to offer.

  


* * *

  


Draco finds a very interesting ward shop with amazingly detailed little statues. The longer he looks at them, the more he falls in love with a particularly lovely set of statues shaped like something resembling a bird set in midnight-blue with lovely gold and emerald details.

"I see you've taken a liking to that set," the shopkeeper says as Draco continues to look the pieces over, trying to take in all of the details.

"Oh yes, it's beautiful," he murmurs. "Though, I must ask, what exactly are they used for? This is a ward shop, is it not? Are they some form of ward anchors?"

The man laughs and nods. "Correct. All of the sets in front of you—" he gestures to the many sets on the shelf in front of Draco—"Are specifically made for magical houses with strong wards. These statues function as an outer layer of protection, you see. If you have a set of these, they must each be destroyed before the house's other wards can be taken down. It makes for a very secure home."

"Oh, that's remarkable," Draco says, eyes widening. "How do you use them?" In the back of his mind Draco cannot help but be utterly grateful that Malfoy Manor did not have anything of the kind during the war. If they had... Well, he's not certain Potter and his friends would have managed to escape.

The shopkeeper smiles. "You place one in each weather direction of the house, and then the remaining three you hide somewhere within the boundaries created by the other four. After that, you use the activation spell, and there you have it!" He chuckles slightly. "The more powerful the house wards, the more useful a set like this becomes. After all, when it comes to very old and powerful wards, the more time it takes you to break through, the harder it will be for you to succeed at all. And since these are placed inside the house, even if an intruder manages to get inside the wards, they will be trapped there—until the wards can do whatever their directive is, be it send a distress signal to a security force or something similar."

Draco nods, mind slightly far away.

There's an itching in the back of his head. He wants to study them, he really _really_ does. But he also... He also wants something to help keep his parents safe.

Not every Death Eater was caught, and some likely managed to avoid being detected by the ministry at all, and even the non-Death Eaters are unlikely to feel especially charitable towards the Malfoy family.

He bites his lip before he makes a decision.

"I'll take two sets," he says, pointing to the lovely set he'd been admiring, as well as another astonishingly beautiful set in white, black, and gold. He can study one of the sets and use the other for the manor, as soon as he can bear to set a foot inside it again.

He takes the shopkeepers instructions, and writes down the incantation and wand movements needed to activate the ward keepers, as they're called. He's also given instructions on how to deactivate them without destroying the pieces—in case he wishes to move houses, apparently.

He'll likely test them first, before he uses them anywhere. Perhaps on one of the smaller properties on the large Malfoy lands.

He'll need to do that to study them anyway, and if there's something that makes them incompatible with the Malfoy wards, he'd rather know that using a less important building than the manor itself.

  


* * *

  


Draco soon finds himself in a bookstore, looking through book after book on healing and potions. He's interested in seeing what the rest of the world has to offer, so that when he gets back to Britain, he can compare it to what he'll learn when... _if_ he goes to the healing academy.

He knows that it may not work out for him. After all, being a healer means people need to trust you with their life and health and considering his past... Well, Draco's not too certain that anyone will have a lot of interest in doing such a thing.

He shakes his head with a sigh. He will have to cross that bridge when he comes to it. There's no point in assuming that he won't be able to work as a healer until it becomes fact.

Besides, if it _does_ become fact, he'll just have to find something else to do with himself.

Worse comes to worst, he can always just life on the Malfoy fortune and investments—though that seems like both a drab and a horrible way to live one's life. No, if healing falls through, he'll find something else.

Perhaps he'll be a writer. He can always use a pseudonym, that way people won't be turned off his work simply because of who he is.

It's a thought, anyway.

Draco turns his attention back to the books. Peru, much like most of the other places he’s visited so far, has a very different main set of standard ingredients in its potions. It seems to have a lot to do which part of world you're in—which does seem obvious now that Draco thinks about it—and a lot of the ingredient descriptions are fascinating.

He's uncertain which book he wants, so he ends up buying all of the three books he'd been trying to choose between. He'll shrink them down anyway, so they'll all fit in his backpack with no trouble anyway.

It really is one of the biggest advantages he has as a travelling wizard over a travelling muggle, he doesn't need nearly as much space for his things and his packing will not get nearly as heavy.

He heads back to his hotel room and pulls out the map again.

He's been to South Asia, East Asia, Africa, and he's currently in South America. The closest place to go would be somewhere in Central or North America, but Draco cannot help but cast a glance over at Oceania, particularly Australia. He's heard a _lot_ of things regarding their flora and fauna, and he's interested in seeing what it's like with his own eyes. Besides, he'll be going by international port-key anyway, so it doesn't matter if he'll be heading up towards the United States or away towards Australia, will it?

Feeling secure in his logic, Draco makes his decision.

Australia next, and then the United States after that. He's not sure if he'll go back home after that, or if he'll continue with his travels for a bit more after that—perhaps Russia or somewhere in Eastern or Northern Europe?

He packs his map and hums to himself.

He needs to go to book an international port-key as quickly as possible.

  


* * *

  


He's not certain what he expected from the Australians, really, but he's quite certain it wasn't what he got. Perhaps he expected them to be more like Brits, but they've clearly... _Changed_ , he supposes he should call it, over the many years since they first arrived.

One thing is for certain though, they do share a lot with magical Britain when it comes to potions and spells. There are some regional differences, and some new ingredients, but for the most part it's more or less the same wand-based Latin speaking magic he left at home.

He chews on a lip and wonders if he should have expected this- After all, Britain sent their prisoners here. They're an off-shoot of Britain in a way.

The same goes for the United States and Canada too, doesn't it?

He feels frustration bubble a bit in his chest. There has to be _something_ here, something that isn't just "more or less Magical Britain but in a slightly different flavour".

The countries are so far apart, they should be much more different than they are! How can...

He nearly slaps himself.

Of course.

The traditions he's looking for, the wonders he wants to see, they'd be with the native population, not the..."imported" one.

The Aboriginal Australians and the Native Americans.

But would they have any interest in speaking with him at all? He knows that they haven't been treated well, certainly not...

Well, he won't know until he tries, will he?

He picks up a map of Australia to see where he should be heading and nods to himself. He'll try, and if they don't want to speak with him, then that's their right. He's certainly not about to force them into doing it.

  


* * *

  


He takes a long sip of water as he eats his lunch in a small diner. He ponders how exactly to make his introductions, because he knows that as a Brit, he's not likely to be the best person to just show up unannounced.

Especially considering the reading he's been doing lately.

Suddenly a tan woman with dark hair sits down in front of him. She looks him over and Draco finds himself studying her in turn. He wonders who she is and why she decided to sit herself down in front of him when a quick glance around the diner shows that it's mostly empty and there are a lot of free seats to be found.

He takes another bite of food and starts chewing it slowly, avoiding eye-contact with the woman, uncertain of her purpose.

"Are you Marked?" she suddenly says, and Draco promptly chokes on his food.

As he coughs and cough, the woman quickly helps by patting him on the back until his coughs subside enough for him to drink some water.

"I beg your pardon?" he manages to choke out as soon as he's swallowed the water.

The woman sits back down in her seat and nods towards Draco's left arm. "Are you Marked?"

Draco finds himself grow cold, his heartbeat picking up.

Should... should he lie? Should he tell the truth?

He opens his mouth, but closes it again without saying anything. Should he be honest?

With a sigh he puts his fork down and straightens a bit. No point in lying, is there? He should be open and honest about it anyway, no matter how much the mark shames him.

"Yes... I am." He can't meet her eyes though he can feel her eyes on him, boring into him.

"Do you have any connection to the stars?"

Draco frowns. That's... a very odd question. He turns to look at her, but her face is calm and betrays nothing about what she's thinking. He wants to scratch at the Mark, but he stops himself.

"I was named after a constellation." He's not sure why he answers at all, for all he knows she could be completely off her rocker, but she... doesn't _seem_ to be. And it feels rude to think such a thing about someone he doesn't know at all.

Suddenly the woman smiles. "You're the one then. The Dragon of the Stars."

Draco feels entirely out of his depth and more confused than eh can ever remember having been before. It's what he imagines Trelawney must have been like to talk to, from Pansy's descriptions of her.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about..."

The woman smiles and shakes her head. "I'm one of the Koorie," she says, of if that explains everything. "One of our stronger divinators said we'd get a visit from a young man of snow-like colouring, bearing a Dark Mark, who's a Dragon of the Stars. He _also_ said that you'd be very willing to learn from us."

Draco blinks and finds himself glad he'd put his fork down already, because he's quite certain he would have dropped it otherwise.

"Was he wrong?"

Draco numbly finds himself shaking his head.

Has he ingested some liquid luck without his knowledge?


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's reading this story, and I hope you'll continue to enjoy this fic!

The woman introduces herself as Anne and Draco follows her without question in a small daze. He can't for the life of him understand why someone would end up predicting his arrival. He's nothing special, really. Not at all actually. He doesn't understand at all why the Koorie would even bother to try to figure out who he is even once they had predicted his arrival.

There's nothing he can do that's anything especially remarkable. He cannot give back the land and lives taken from them by the colonisers, for example, nor does he have the least bit of power over current Australian law or anything either.

He's just... He's just a former Death Eater, a young Brit who's barely into adulthood who's on a world tour to... figure out himself? No, that's stupid, that's not what he's doing. He's learning more about _the world,_ not himself. Though perhaps through learning about the world he's learned something about himself, after all, he wouldn't have considered becoming a healer before this trip after all.

They walk mostly in silence, but it’s not an uncomfortable one, merely a contemplative.

He wonders if he should say something, but he really doesn't know _what_ he should say at all. He continues to follow Anne in silence and ends up not saying anything at all until they reach the rest of the Koorie. She didn't ask to see his mark, she only asked _if_ he was marked. Does she know what the mark means? Draco isn't sure, but he hopes she does, hopes they know... He doesn't want to speak of it again. He doesn't want to be reminded of it again.

He can hear some whispers, but no one seems exactly displeased to have him there—though they're not pleased either, he thinks, while suppressing a rueful laugh.

She invites him inside a house and gestures towards a small kitchen table. He takes a seat, uncertain where this whole thing is going. For all he knows, the divination actually just revealed what a horrible person he is, and Anne lured him here to rid the world of his presence once and for all...

Draco shakes his head forcefully. That's a horrible and utterly uncharitable thing to think about someone, especially someone he just met who's only ever been polite to him.

"Tea?" Anne holds up a glass jar with what appears to be tea leaves in it.

"That would be lovely, thank you." Never let anyone say that Draco's mother didn't teach him manners.

Anne nods and turns around and starts boiling water.

Draco looks around the kitchen, it looks quite... muggle, now that he's looking. There are many appliances he doesn't recognise, and all of the light fixtures seems to use neither magic nor candles. In fact, the kitchen seems to be lit by some sort of glowing glass balls he's never seen before.

"I'm sorry, Anne, but what are those glowing glass balls? I've never seen something like it before." He wonders if this is some Koorie magic, but before he can get excited at the prospect, Anne laughs a bit.

"They're called lightbulbs. It's a muggle invention. You'll find that almost everything around here are muggle things. We practice magic otherwise. Due to the general state of affairs, the muggle government keeps track of both our magical and non-magical population, so all of us Koori live together. Statue of secrecy or no."

Draco blinks a few times in surprise. So it's a muggle invention? Then it wouldn't work around magic.

He sighs a bit. What a shame, it looked quite interesting.

Soon enough Anne sets a cup of tea down in front of Draco before she sits down herself. "Devon and Hannah will be here any minute. I let them know we were coming ahead of time."

Draco takes a sip of his tea—lovely—in lieu of an answer, just briefly, before he manages to get his thoughts in proper order. "If I may ask, who are Devon and Hannah?"

Anne smiles. "Devon is the Divinator who foresaw that you'd be coming, and Hannah is one of our brightest witches. If anyone will be teaching you anything, it's likely to be her."

Draco nods in understanding and turns his attention back to his tea. It really is lovely, he thinks. And then says, because again, his mother certainly did raise him with manners. Anne murmurs a thank you before the both of them let silence descend over the table again.

A gentle knocking sound comes from the door before a voice calls out, "Hello? Anne? We're here now!"

A short rotund woman comes inside, followed by a tall and gangly man. Draco blinks in surprise, they certainly make for an odd-looking pair. Like absolute opposites in body shape.

"Well hello there," the woman, Hannah, says with a smile. "You must be the 'Dragon of the Stars', as Devon called you." Her voice is filled with mirth, and Draco finds himself fighting a blush, though he's not quite certain why.

"I'm Draco," he says, "It's nice to meet you." He nods slightly first to Hannah and then to Devon, before he takes another sip of his tea.

"Oh, I see. 'Draco', Latin, meaning 'dragon'." Devon's voice also sounds amused.

Draco nods. "I was named for the constellation per the tradition of my mother's family."

This time it's Anne who laughs. "Well that certainly explains why Devon's divination called you something as ostentatious and fanciful as the 'Dragon of the Stars', it was just a quite literal description of your name."

Draco shrugs one shoulder. "It appears so, yes." He's long since gotten used to people thinking his name is odd, even among wizards. He'd asked his mother once why they'd named him after Black naming traditions when he's considered to be of the Malfoy line rather than the Black line. She had looked far away for a moment, pulling him close and kissing his hair before she finally answered.

_"I was the only one not named after the stars. Both my sisters were, and my cousins... But no, not me. So when we had you, I asked Lucius to let me give you the star name I never received myself._ "

She laughed then and brushed some hair from his face.

_"He'd considered naming you after his father, you know. But after I asked him... well, he wouldn't,_ couldn't _, deny me."_ The smile on her face had been both fond and nostalgic.

It's one of Draco's fonder memories from his childhood. He'd always loved it when his parents spoke of each other with such love and fondness. With how pureblood tradition is about affection in public, he always appreciated their affection in private that much more.

Shaking himself free from his contemplation of the past, Draco returns his attention to the people in front of him. To zone out completely would be unbearably rude, especially when he wishes to learn from them. Giving a bad first impression would be... well... Bad.

"So tell me, Draco, why are you here?" Devon's face is openly curious, but also very calm.

Draco bites his lip and works hard to avoid fidgeting. "I've been travelling, to get away from Britain and to... To learn more about magic. Not just the type of magic I learned at home, but about the different kinds of magic that exists around the world."

Before he can stop himself, he pulls his travel diary up out of his pocket and opens it up on some of his notes regarding magic jewellery.

"I went to India first, you see. They have an amazing tradition of magic Jewellery there. A woman I met there, Diya, was kind enough to teach me both how touse the jewellery, but also how to _make_ it." He flips a few pages forward. "When I was in Egypt later, I realised that they too have a tradition of magic jewellery..."

He loses himself in explaining, in talking about his trip. The three adults at the table with him hums and seem to listen, so Draco finds himself talking almost non-stop. Going from through to thought, explaining what he's learned, what he hopes to learn, and about all the fascinating and amazing facets of magic he's learned about since leaving Britain.

All the things he never knew existed.

"So then I finally came here, to Australia. But I was quite... well, surprised and disappointed when I came to the larger magical community in Sydney. It was just so similar to back home. It wasn't exactly the same of course, but it wasn't very different either. And then I remembered that, well, of course it isn't. Britain... colonised Australia. Of course the descendants of the British colonisers would use magic that is so very similar to what the British do."

He stops himself from scratching the back of his head, feeling awkward. "That's when I realised that what I was looking for would be the communities that existed here, developed here, before the British ever arrived."

He takes another sip of tea and tries to avoid meeting anyone's eyes.

"So what is it you hope to learn from us? What is it you hope to find among us?" Anne's face is placid, but Draco thinks he can see a hint of... well, she seems sort of pleased in a way Draco can't quite pin-point.

"Anything you would be willing to teach me," he says honestly. "I... I have made bad decisions. Regardless of my reasons, I can admit that they were... bad. I was Marked by a dark wizard and made to serve at his side in the recent wizarding war in Britain." He pauses then, chews on his lip and takes a deep breath. "I don't expect anything. I wouldn't be surprised if you refuse to teach me anything, if you turn me away completely. It would be no less than I deserve. Everything I have learned on this trip has been entirely due to the kindness of the people I've met, and I won't demand anything."

Devon hums slightly, drinking from his tea cup. Hannah's eyes are trained on Draco, her head leaning on her hand as she stares unblinkingly at him. It almost feels as if she can see right through him, down to all the darkest and ugliest parts of him. Down to the nightmares and screams and the feeling of hands on his body that haunts his every waking moment—the pain of it muted since he left his home country behind.

"What is it you wish to do after this? Once your trip is over?" Hannah says as her free hand draws idle patterns on the table's surface.

"I was hoping to become a healer," Draco says, thinking about Zhiqiang and how good the healing spells had felt as they left his wand.

"A healer, you say." Devon's face is placid. "They face a lot of pain and sadness, a lot of grief. Are you sure you haven't seen enough of that already, despite your youth?"

Draco winces. He'd almost forgotten Devon was a seer. He probably knows a lot more about Draco than Draco would like. He shrugs one shoulder. "I want to try and give something back, try to make up for some of the horrors I caused. There's only so much I can do, and I know I have done things that can never be forgiven... but if I can help others, if I can save people instead of hurting them... Then I think that would be good. I would like that."

It's a nice dream, though he's not sure if he can make it a reality.

Anne's face is grave. "When the colonisers came here, we tried to have an exchange of ideas. We tried to teach them what we knew, what we could do, the magic that was in our culture, that grew in our bones..." She trails off, staring into space for a moment before she blinks rapidly, seemingly coming back to herself. "They took that knowledge and claimed it for their own. They claimed they hadn't been taught, but that they'd _discovered_ it, as if they themselves created those spells and potions." She snorts. "And then they stole our children too."

Draco's stomach churns with dread. That's... that's _awful._

"I'm sorry," he whispers. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what he _can_ say. There's nothing that strong enough to convey his feelings, and at the same time he doesn't feel comfortable expressing them anyway; this isn't about _him._

Hannah waves her hand. "So. They came. They took what they could. Land, magic, potions, children... But sometimes... Some things... They failed to learn. And in their failure, they declared our knowledge fake—a hoax." Bitterness seeps into her voice. "They dismissed us, and noted down and spread to all the rest of them about the 'hoax', the 'scam', we were trying to run... And though we're still fighting to have the government understand that it is _not_ a hoax, that we truly _can_ do... _that..._ The word of men dead since long ago still weighs heavier than ours."

Draco wonders what it is they say they can do, what it is this "hoax" supposedly was, but he doesn't want to pry. It's no doubt a sore subject, for good reason. He can only imagine how he would have taken it if it were him who was subjected to it...

Hardly well, he can think.

But the words also hit him deep for other reasons. He has no doubt that just a scant few years ago, he likely would have done the exact same thing as those colonisers if he could have gotten away with it. His father certainly would have encouraged it, seen it as something that could bring esteem to the family.

He wonders over how many bodies the Malfoy family has walked to reach where they are, wonders how many skeletons that are buried beneath the mansion—figuratively. Only those belonging to the Malfoy family are actually buried beneath the Mansion.

Even if the Ministry had wanted to take it from them, they couldn't have. The very ground itself is imbued with the blood and bones of the Malfoys, and the magic knows it. The Mansion, the grounds, can never be taken from them as long as the blood of the Malfoys still lives.

He shakes himself out of his thoughts and takes another sip of tea.

He doesn't know what to say, or how to act.

"Lives that could have been saved have been lost because no one believed us." Frustration flits across Hannah's face. Draco feels cold. "But it's getting better, we've finally managed to convince the government to let us prove our case. Let _us_ prove that we can. Not someone else. Us."

Draco nods his head. "I'm glad to hear that." He is slightly confused, however. If they'd used divination to find out that he was coming... Well, he assumed he would be involved in this somehow.

Perhaps that was arrogant of him to think.

"Don't worry, Draco. You won't have to get involved in Australian politics," Devon says with a wink. "My divination simply said that you would be coming, willing to learn. And we always want to welcome those who wish to learn. Simple as that. We merely wished to give you some context about our past, and people who have come to learn from us before." 

Draco smiles. He's glad. From what he's seen of Harry Potter's life, the life of someone who's "special"... It isn't actually something he'd want.

"I do want to learn," he says. "But again, I won't make any demands."

Anne chuckles. "Well, we'll see, Draco. We'll see."


	14. Chapter 14

Draco gets herded into a different building and up to a room where Anne says he can sleep.

"We'll talk more tomorrow, Draco. I know it's early, but we need to discuss it among ourselves and... Well, you looked like you needed to gather your thoughts and get yourself together a bit." She smiles. "I'll come get you for dinner, okay?"

"I... yes. Thank you." He wonders at their hospitality, uncertain of how he should take it, of what he should give in return. Would they accept money? Would they consider it an insult? Are they expecting him to pay and is the fact that he's even considering this an insult?

He'll have to ask.

He turns to his travel diary to make notes, sitting on the bed with his legs crossed to pour over the knowledge stored within it.

He's proud of it, this creation of his. Perhaps... Perhaps it's something the Koorie would like to learn in turn.

Perhaps he can make it an actual exchange of ideas and knowledge. He's not sure he knows something they don't, but if he does, he's willing to share it.

Isn't that how knowledge should be treated? As something to be shared with as many as possible?

What Anne had said should be enough. If their knowledge had been believed and trusted... people could have been saved.

Draco lies down with a sigh, staring at the ceiling.

From how they spoke it wasn't the nature of the magic that had been the problem at all, it had been that the colonisers had failed to learn and written it off as a hoax because of it.

Draco snorts at how short-sighted that is.

If every spell he couldn't master was to be considered a hoax, well, then the Patronus would be one. Well, the full-bodies one, at least. Draco has, after much and hard practice, learned to make the mist. It certainly helped him get an O in DADA... But he still wishes he could do better.

Still, he knows that it lies within himself, the problem that is, not with the spell itself.

It seems odd to write something off as fake because you yourself fail to learn it.

He wonders what it is, but he also understands that they may not want to tell him, or teach him.

He'll try to have a relationship of shared knowledge. That's how it _should_ be.

He falls asleep with a smile.

  


* * *

  


Dinner is delicious, eaten in large company. He enjoys listening to the conversation, the parts spoken in English at least.

He's seated next a girl his own age who introduces herself as Eliza—she also tells him frankly that she's non-magical. She's one of the first muggles Draco has ever spent any prolonged time with, but even so he realises that she's hardly different from a witch. In fact, she reminds him a bit of Daphne Greengrass.

Then again, he thinks, she lives with witches and wizards. She knows about magic. She's not exactly representative of the average muggle, but at the same time, the longer they talk the more he realises how much they have in common.

Eliza also knows a lot about magical theory. Apparently, despite not being able to use any magic herself, she loves studying the history of her tribe and the magic that comes from its customs as well as the magic used in the general Australian magical community.

Draco soon finds himself with his travel diary pulled up, his right pulled up slightly to show off his bracelets as he talks to her about everything he's learned during his trip around the world.

He's delighted when Eliza pulls up her own odd-looking journal as well as something that appears to be a self-inking quill with a very odd shape—she calls it a "pen" and says it's a very easy to use muggle writing instrument.

She lets him try it when he asks, and Draco finds himself almost giddy with excitement when he realises how easy it is to write with. The ink flows out with a steady flow, the pen is easy to hold, and he doesn't even need to dip it in ink.

"It's magnificent," he finds himself murmuring, wondering why on earth wizards back home haven't adopted it. It reminds him of a self-inking quill, but easier to hold. How come the muggleborns at Hogwarts haven't started riots demanding to be allowed to use these "pens" instead of quills and ink?

When he asks Eliza if she has any idea, she just laughs loudly and suggests that it's some kind of... novelty thing. Or perhaps that they just want to fit in so badly that they will take that loss in comfort and convenience for the sake of conforming.

Draco finds himself frowning.

He doesn't like it at all.

In fact, that's what he's been told for most of his life as one of the main reasons pureblood wizards and witches pushes against the integration of muggleborn witches and wizards—the loss of identity and culture that comes from diluting their culture... Contaminating it with people raised by muggles who don't _understand_.

After all, Hogwarts teaches you about magic, it doesn't teach you about magical society.

Even so... Hearing that muggleborns lose identity, leave pieces of themselves behind when they enter the wizarding world... he doesn't like it, he doesn't like it at all.

"I think I'll buy some of these 'pens' and bring them home with me. They seem far more convenient than quills so far. I wonder if they’re more or less expensive than a self-inking quill," he tells her, still looking at the pen in fascination. Perhaps... Perhaps a bridge can be made, between the two worlds. Perhaps there's some way to incorporate convenient muggle inventions—the ones that won't blow up when confronted with magic at least—to make wizarding society more convenient, and to help the integration of muggleborns into society. Or perhaps being more open to look at some muggle solutions to create magical solutions to the same problem—if it is a problem for wizards as well.

He turns the pen over a few times, fingers itching with the urge to pick it apart and try to understand how it works. Perhaps making self-inking quills more common could help… They’re quite expensive so most people just buy regular quills to dip in ink but… perhaps they could be made less cumbersome too, this pen really does seem much easier to hold than a quill.

Perhaps he really should have spent more time around muggles during his trip, if this is the kind of thing he could have been learning! There's just _so much_ to learn about the world, from both wizards and muggles, clearly.

Eliza laughs again. "You can buy pens in Britain, Draco. You don't have to buy any here to take home with you."

"Really? That's brilliant, means I won't have to go to Australia every time I need a new pen," he says with a wink. Eliza laughs, and Draco joins in, feeling lighter than he has in a long while.

It seems like the culmination of his entire trip, like small bits and pieces coming together. Like he's slowly but surely managed to cast off some of the horrors, and with the help of the people he's met, somehow stitch himself back together.

Or perhaps stitch himself into something new, something different.

A Draco Malfoy that has never walked the earth before.

A Draco Malfoy who looks at the world through new eyes.

A Draco Malfoy who sees more than he ever has before.

He likes the idea.

He really does.

  


* * *

  


Weeks pass.

Draco finds himself living among the Koorie, seeing their day to day life. Experiencing the way their life blends muggle and wizarding society.

He wonders if it would be possible for the rest of the world to function like this, if everyone could live like this, in a seamless blend.

It's a nice thought, a sweet dream... But he knows it to be unrealistic. He doubts that it's actually possible. At least not now, perhaps one day, far in the future, long after Draco has drawn his last breath.

He spends a lot of time with Eliza. He's missed being around someone his own age, even though their lives are and have been very different, they still understand each other a bit better than they do the older adults.

There's something to be said for kinship coming from age, especially when it's those awkward transition years between a child and an adult. When you're still not quite old enough to be considered an adult, but you're no longer a child, and also leaving the teenage years behind.

Draco is... more thrilled than perhaps he should be to find that there are hints of Pansy in Eliza. It's a bit like having one of his best friends around, and even though this trip has been amazing, he does still miss the people he cares for.

Letters just aren't enough, especially when they're usually one-sided. His friends and family are mostly unable to write back due to his moving around, only during his longer stretches of time in the same place does he receive replies.

His parents letters smell of his mother's perfume or his father's cologne, depending on who got the privilege to write the letter—he amuses himself sometimes by imagining them fighting over it, all sweet and polite words and raised eyebrows. A true pureblood argument, leaving everyone else none the wiser.

His father's clean script covers the page, talking about Mipsy's recent culinary explorations—apparently Draco's compliments of the Indian cuisine sparked her interest, and his parents have been reaping the benefits ever since—and mother and Noddie's recent success in cultivating a living and _thriving_ rainbow rosebush. Apparently it currently spans an entire wall of the summer cottage—Draco cannot wait to see it.

The sweeps through the Manor are progressing well, father writes, and soon he and mother should be able start redecorating. Bassie's been making plans, apparently, making drawings and finding paint swatches and gorgeous wallpaper samples. Father writes that he's decided to let her go at it to her heart's content until they can start looking properly—it gives her something to do, since the cottage is really too small for so many house elves to take care of.

His house arrest has ended, though the probation is still ongoing.

Draco feels an ache in his chest, reading about all the things he's missing back home.

He misses them so much, he really does.

But even so, he knows that his trip isn't over yet. There's still things he needs to see, and he still isn't ready to face the rest of Britain yet—the parts outside the summer house and his parents' presences.

  


* * *

  


"You'll do," Hannah says one day, out of the blue, startling Draco out of his and Eliza's conversation about flying and whether or not it's possible to create something that would function as a broom but that isn't a broom.

"Pardon?" Draco looks up from the paper he and Eliza had been writing and sketching on to find Hannah, Anne, and Devon standing there, their faces calm and pleased.

Anne shakes her head with a smile. "We've discussed, all of us adults, and we've decided that we _will_ teach you. You've helped with everything with no fuss, you pay for your food and board with no fuss, and you haven't even mentioned being taught anything since the first day—just like you said you wouldn't. You've learned of our culture and traditions through participation and if we had any doubts regarding whether or not you held loyalty for that dark wizard who marked you, well, rest assured they've been assuaged."

Draco blinks in surprise, his mouth falling open in surprise. "I... I don't..." He looks at Eliza, who grins widely at him. "Thank you," he finishes, and feels his cheeks heat up, though he's not sure why.

He hasn't really _done_ anything at all, certainly not anything worthy of praise... has he?

"Well, time to get started Draco! No time to waste, you'll have time to talk with Eliza later." Hannah waves her hand at him, urging him to come.

Draco slowly gets to his feet. "I suppose we'll talk at dinner, Eliza," he says as goodbye. Eliza smiles and nods, waving as he walks away.

He follows Hannah away towards the brewing buildings, where he knows the Koorie make all their potions.

He supposes that what they wish to teach is a potion of some kind. He smiles, he _has_ missed potion making, he hasn't done it since he was in China and that was several months ago now.

A lock of pale hair suddenly falls into his face, and Draco sighs. He needs to redo his braid, it seems. Well, it will have to wait for a bit.

He follows Hannah inside and as he passes through the doorway he realises that Devon and Anne came with them.

He'd assumed that Hannah would be the one teaching him, alone, but perhaps there's something else they need to speak of before lessons start? Or perhaps they just want to observe.

Or maybe they're going to be teaching him something else. Draco certainly wouldn't mind it if Devon decided to teach him some divination—if done right it could likely be very useful, he thinks. And likely very fascinating.

Hannah pulls out some chairs in the largest brewing room and takes a seat. Draco follows and sits down next to her, curious to hear what she has to say.

"Well, Draco," Devon starts, before he pauses and looks to Anne who raises an eyebrow at him. "We have many things we could teach you, much of which we have no doubt you'd be very interested in learning. We've heard you talk about your trip over the last few weeks, and your enthusiasm has been obvious."

Draco nods. He has no doubts that it's true that they can teach him many interesting things, even if it's just general theory and no specifics.

Anne nods her head and crosses her arms over her chest. "One question we do have, however, is regarding divination."

Draco turns his head to the side, just slightly. "What about it?"

"The colonials didn't believe our way worked, so we simply wanted to know if you wish for me to teach you that as well, or if you think you're too locked in the British way of divination to learn." Devon's face holds no judgement.

Draco smiles. "I actually haven't taken any classes on divinations, so I'm mostly a blank sheet. I'd be happy to learn the Koorie way of divining the future."

Devon smiles. "Excellent."


	15. Chapter 15

The lessons are absolutely fascinating. Hannah uses ingredients in her potions in ways Draco couldn't have dreamed of and they end up spending almost as much time talking theory and preparation methods as they do actually brewing potions. It's like when he was in China and learned from the Liang brothers all over again.

He learns a potion that helps against nightmares, one aimed specifically at them, rather than the more general sleep potions Draco's learned before. He finds it fascinating to learn that you can target something so specific as nightmares.

It almost makes him rethink his plans of becoming a healer in favour of becoming a potions master. He's certain he would love that as well, in fact. But no, he's chosen his path.

Though, if his past means no one feels able to trust him with the lives of their loved ones—or themselves—then he may have to re-school to become a potions master. But he wants to try healing first, he truly does.

The more they work, the more ideas Draco has, and soon they're experimenting with ingredients Draco encountered in China. He pays to have them ordered, and deals with the customs, but soon he and Hannah are laughing and humming and hawing their way over multiple cauldrons to try and figure out with Australian opal snake scales will interact badly with scales from a Chinese Fireball.

They have a few minor explosions, but mostly successes.

When they actually manage to create a potion that works as a localised anaesthetic with on-skin application, Hannah lets out a whoop and spares no time in dragging Draco into town to start going through the process of patenting it and start the official governmental tests.

He realises that he doesn't much care about the patent or any of it beyond _creating,_ and helping, but... It still makes him feel good.

  


* * *

  


Draco finds himself alone in the dark.

Fear tingles down his spine as a sense of deja vu washes over him. It can't be, not... Not.

He pulls out his wand. "Lumos!" He casts the spell desperately.

Nothing.

Not a single speck of light.

Footsteps echoing around him, coming closer.

He knows what's coming, but he starts running anyway. Blindly, desperately.

Strong arms wrap around him, slams him down into the ground.

He can't breathe, hands closing around his windpipe.

_"What lovely hair you have."_

He tries to scream.

  


* * *

  


Devon's lessons in divination are fascinating and Draco finds himself constantly making connections to Arithmancy and its applications.

Devon uses a combination of stones and cards he's made himself to divine meaning, combined with a form of incense that will spell words—it's how they got the phrase "dragon of the stars" when Devon tried to see if there was anyone interesting arriving.

But there is something about the smell of the incense that seems to unsettle Draco's dreams.

He cannot forget the first time he woke up shaking, barely able to breathe, the memory of someone trying to choke him like phantom hands around his neck.

_"What lovely hair you have."_

The words echo in his mind, awful and hissing as they are. He shudders whenever he remembers them. The voice in his dream is... is Voldemort's. He remembers all too well the feeling and the sound of Voldemort hissing words in his ear in an almost intimate fashion.

He wishes so desperately that he could forget all about it. That he would not remember it at all.

And now... now he's had the dream again, several times. No less horrible for its repetition.

He mentions it to Devon, who frowns and strokes his chin. "I don't know, Draco. You've had it before, you say?"

Draco nods his head, feeling tired and wrung out. "I don't know, it feels... It feels too real, somehow." He wraps his arms around himself. "Every single time I wake up from it, I have to cast a lumos just to ensure myself that my magic still works. That I _can_ cast magic. That it wasn't real."

Devon leans back in his chair and looks away, seemingly lost in thought.

"I cannot be certain, but the vividness of it sounds like one of the primary defining characteristics of a vision. But you haven't mentioned that you're a seer, and by your reaction, this doesn't seem like something you have much experience with?" The wording doesn't indicate a question at all, but by the _way_ Devon says it, it's clear that he _is_ asking.

Draco glances away, closes his eyes, and tries to remember if he's ever had dreams like this before. The idea that he'd turn out to be a True Seer seems absolutely ridiculous. If he's about to start spouting prophesies, he doesn't know what to do with himself... He doesn't even have much training within divination yet. Only the basics Devon has gone through with him so far.

Still... It's not the first vivid dream he's ever had.

"I've... I've had vivid dreams before, but... But I guess they haven't been nightmares the same way, so I haven't paid much attention to them." He shrugs one shoulder. "But I truly cannot be sure, Devon. Especially not since I've been taking calming draughts and dreamless sleep potions for so many nights ever since the war... I've barely managed to dream at all."

Devon doesn't seem pleased to hear that, but he doesn’t outright say anything about it. "Well, I cannot say for certain whether or not it's a vision, nor can I tell you what it means." He shakes his head. "The divination I work with does not utilise dreams, really. It's more similar to Arithmancy than many other divination techniques in that way."

Draco shrugs one shoulder. "It doesn't really matter. It could just... It could just be memories of the war mixed with my anxiety. If it doesn't immediately strike you as a vision, then it's probably nothing."

Devon purses his lips. "You should, perhaps, consult someone who's more experienced with dream visions than I am. But I will respect your choices."

Draco nods. "Thank you."

"Now, do you want to continue with the lesson?" Devon smiles slightly, gesturing to the stones and cards on the table in front of him.

Draco manages a smile. "Yes."

  


* * *

  


Draco looks out over the landscape through the window, drawing deep breaths and feeling the Australian heat was over him, even as he casts a cooling charm to keep it at bay.

He's loved his time here, but he can feel in his very bones that it's time to keep going. That he should head somewhere else, see another place.

He's not sure what it is that makes him go on this trip, what it is that moves his hand and feet through the world. He just knows that it's time to leave, but not time to head back to Britain. Not yet.

He sits down next to Eliza in the shade and she takes a single quick look at him before she nods to herself. "You're leaving."

He startles slightly, surprised. But perhaps he shouldn't be. Eliza _is_ incredibly perceptive.

"I am," he whispers.

She nods again. "You'll write, won't you?" She smiles, but it's tinged with sadness. "We'll miss you."

Draco meets her eyes and smiles in return. "I'll miss you too."

  


* * *

  


Arriving in the United States is not what Draco expected.

Then again, he wasn't quite sure what he expected. Still, he feels out of place somehow, as if he doesn't fit in, even though he doesn't look overly out of place.

The woman who scans his wand in at the international portkey station barely looks at him, seemingly utterly uninterested and bored with her job. He's not sure how to react to her indifference. Though at the same time he's not sure he _should_ react at all. perhaps this is just how it is here?

He heads over to the nearby domestic portkey station as soon as she waves him through, indicating that she's finished with him. He looks at the large map of all the states and cities using his wand to zoom in on different places, keeping his appearance calm and aloof, as if he knows exactly what he's doing.

He knows he wishes to visit a Native American tribe, but he's still not sure which one or in which capacity. He's also not sure how he'd specifically find the magical community in the tribe or if they live mixed like the Koorie.

He sighs slightly, wondering what exactly he should do.

He _could_ go to a book store and see if they have any books there that could help, or perhaps he could ask one of the workers in the portkey office's information desk. He'll likely have to take a portkey wherever he's going anyway, so it would make sense for them to know... right?

Nodding to himself, Draco heads towards the information counter.

It's a good place to start anyway.

  


* * *

  


"I'm glad you came, Draco. Your travels seem to have been fascinating," Mrs Williams says as she puts down plates of delicious looking bean bread on the table.

Draco nods towards her. "They have been. Absolutely amazing, in fact. And I'm very grateful to you for having me."

He hadn't expected to be invited for dinner with a family, but it had felt rude to try and refuse. The pleased look Mrs Williams had given him once he accepted had made Draco conclude with relief that accepting had been the correct choice.

So he finds himself in Mrs Williams's home, seated between her daughter Sky and her son Joe, on the opposite side of the table to Mr Williams.

Draco has tried to keep up with the conversation even as he's watched with fascination as Mrs Williams cooked, using a mix of magic and muggle means—but without a single wand in sight.

One of the first things he learned is that the magical Cherokee community doesn't use wands at all, preferring to adhere to their old traditions of wandless magic. He's fascinated and so excited to even contemplate learning more about it.

He's known since childhood that you can use magic wandlessly, of course he has, but usually in Britain you need to be very powerful to do it. The spells most commonly used have been created for wand usage—they're mostly dependant on the wand acting as an amplifier to work properly.

But in a society where wands aren't used, the magic must look very different. The spells must be different... unless every magical Cherokee person is just naturally more powerful than the average British witch or wizard, but that seems very unlikely. If he’s understood it correctly, the Cherokee both use non-wand dependant magic and the type of wand-based magic Draco grew up with. He’s curious to learn more about it all.

Dinner is amazing and Draco finds himself especially in love with Mrs Williams's bean bread.

Conversation flows easily, and Draco talks at length of his travels and the amazing people he's met along the way, the amazing people who's taken him in and taught him so much about their cultures, their lives, and the ways magic fits into them.

He shows off his bracelets and earrings and picks up his amulet to give them a chance to admire its amazing craftsmanship—Draco feels a pang of longing, wishing he could have learned how to make amulets for himself, but he respects Ojo and Yetunde's decision not to teach him.

He won't ask the Williams for anything more than they've freely given, certainly not before he's explained his past properly. He glossed over it at dinner, unwilling to disturb the mood... But he knows he must before he can truly feel at ease here—though they might ask him to leave once they know. It certainly would be no less than he deserves, he knows that.

Even so, he wishes that the faded and scarred mark on the inside of his wrist had never been there. He wishes he'd been better, braver, and made better choices.

He wishes his father had been braver.

He wishes they'd gotten out, rather than allowed themselves to be drawn in, no matter the risk.

It certainly would have saved Draco a lot of fear, pain, and grief...

But he had the choice put before him as well, and he made the same wrong choices they did. They're not fully to blame, a lot of it rests on Draco's own shoulders.

He sits on the bed of his rented room, and considers all the time that passed and everything that happened.

He still hasn't apologised to everyone he's hurt.

He picks up his diary to start crafting more letters, for Madame Rosmerta, Longbottom, and Bell... Regardless of how they'll feel about it, they still deserve at least an apology.

Looking back at what he's done and what he's believed... It's hard and it hurts. The more he reflects the worse his nightmares grow and harder he finds it to breathe.

He's lucky that calming potions and the potion for dreamless sleep is easy to procure almost anywhere in the world. No doubt would he have run out long before now otherwise.

He wishes he wasn't dependant on potions to get through the day on occasion, but it is what it is.

Perhaps it's simply a part of his punishment—having to live with what he did.

In death he would not remember, not grieve it.

In death it would not shame him.

In life it does.

But at least he lives. At least he did not lose his life.

At least he has this chance to turn himself around, become a better person, bring something _good_ into the world.

If he can.

Only time will tell.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, this ended up taking a lot longer than I planned! My apologies to anyone who was waiting for an update. :)

When Draco stumbles through his explanation of the faded scar mark on the inside of his left wrist, he's not in the Williams' kitchen—he's in town, where many more of the community have gathered.

No matter how many times he does it, it doesn't get easier; he stills tumbles over the words and bites back excuses and his reasonings. He keeps reminding himself that it doesn't _matter_ that his parents were threatened, does it? He made choices that hurt others, some of which he cannot regret because he lives because of them, because his parents live because of them.

He does regret that they were necessary for him to make however. He _hates_ that he had to make them. He wonders what would have happened if he'd chosen differently, would they all still live then? But to go down that path is the way of madness, and he has to force himself away from those thoughts.

They ask him questions, some of them about his motives, and he explains as well as he can.

He sees in their eyes how many of them look and see someone barely out of childhood. He saw more than one of them flinch when he mentioned his age at the time of his branding.

"Do you regret it?" Sky asks him, staring at the mark on his wrist.

He laughs then, sharp and brittle. "Absolutely. I hate that I will live the rest of my life with _his_ mark burned into my skin..." He trails off, tries to avoid saying too much, revealing too much of it all. "Marks like these... they can never be removed. I'll have it until the day I die."

He cannot stop the shiver that runs down his back. "I'll never be free of him. Not just because I cannot forget, but also because a reminder is carved into the skin of my arm." He shakes his head. "Regardless of how much I may regret it, I will never be rid of the mark."

A woman who introduced herself as Alice McCoy hums at that. "They cannot be removed, that is true." She catches his gaze, and seems to stare into Draco's soul. "But they _can_ be changed."

Draco feels his mouth drop open. "What?" He... You can _change_ the Dark mark? He could be rid of this brand that marks him down to his very soul? This mark that sends a wave of shame and nausea whenever he sees it?

She strokes a finger across the mark and nods. "Mmm, something like this, though, something like this is difficult. Changing it cannot be taught, because it requires a complete rejection of everything the mark stands for." She shakes her head with a chuckle. "You cannot teach someone that. But if you can reject what it stands for, reject it with your very soul, then I can teach you to change it."

Draco stares at her, feels the blood drain out of his face.

Before he knows it, he's been herded into a chair.

"I didn't... I didn't think it was possible," he whispers. "I hate it. I hate everything it stands for. I hate _myself_ for having ever believed in even just a bit of it... Before I understood the depth of depravity it represented."

She pats his hand gently, and Draco can hear Mrs Williams fret in the background. "You'll see, young one. If you can pass the first test, we'll get you sorted out when it comes to this mark." She laughs then, a croaky chuckling sound. "There's nothing so dark that there's no opposing light."

Her words are so sure, so confident, that Draco cannot help but feel hope.

  


* * *

  


Sky swallows her fried hominy and catches Draco's gaze. "Considering how important you thought it to let us know 'what kind of person you are', I'm surprised that you're willing to let Auntie Alice help you change the mark at all." She takes another forkful of food.

Draco bites his lip, fork frozen half-way to his lips. He's not sure how to reply, but before he can worry about it, Sky continues.

"I'm just saying, Draco." She shrugs one shoulder. "I almost would have expected you to think you'd need to keep it so everyone would know, just by looking."

Draco huffs out a short laugh, but it's a frail and brittle sound without humour in it. "I'm well known enough back home that no one will need to mark to know. They need only look at me and they know who I am and what I've done." He closes his eyes briefly before he finally continues to eat.

It's delicious.

Mr Williams hums. "You're famous?" He looks mildly interested, but not overly so. It seems more like a polite sort of interest, and Draco isn't especially surprised. Mr Williams most likely have little interest in someone who may be a British celebrity.

"I wouldn't say famous, exactly, but my family is well known, as is our name." Draco shrugs awkwardly. "And no doubt my picture was plastered all over the papers after the trial."

Joe snorts. "You don't actually seem certain about that last bit."

"I'm not," Draco says. "I haven't looked at a single British newspaper since the war ended. I spent most of the year following it far away from the news and people in general." He shrugs. "I couldn't handle it. First time I was in a crowd after the end of the war was when I went to take my exams on Ministry orders. Part of my sentencing."

He's not exactly ashamed to talk about the fact that he was convicted, that he has a criminal record... His role among the death eaters is of far more importance, and the Williams family already knows about that. Letting them know that he was sentenced changes nothing.

"Words cannot properly convey how humbled and grateful I am by your hospitality, despite who I've been." Draco wonders if he ever could have said something like this before his trip. Before the war. before who he was and had been raised to be had been painfully and horribly torn asunder, leaving a shredded shell of a man.

He's been helped and protected by so many, despite how little he deserves it.

It makes his resolve to become a healer, to give something back, all the stronger.

He doesn't want to die with unpaid debts.

  


* * *

  


"First things first, we must see if the mark is malleable." Alice McCoy's face is calm, but serious. "If it is not, then you have not truly rejected what the mark stands for—even if you have rejected the man who put it on your skin—and then you will not be able to change it into something else."

"Intent and belief are important," Draco murmurs, nodding his head and holding out his bare wrist. He can't quite bear to look at the mark, so he keeps his eyes turned away from it.

She takes his wrist and places her fingers at the edge of the pale and faded scar mark. She murmurs something, too low for Draco to hear, and a jolt surges up his arm, making him flinch and look right at his arm. The mark seems to grow fuzzy at the edges, smearing and it looks much like wet paint starting to run.

He stares at it.

Is it... Is it changing?

He opens his mouth to ask, awed, when a sharp pain shoots through his arm and the mark returns to its original form, sharp if faded.

Draco's mouth twists and he squeezes his eyes shut. He's worked so hard to unlearn, to be _better..._ But perhaps he isn't... Not on the inside. not truly. Perhaps he still believes in some part of himself that some of what his father believed in was right... And the nearly two and a half years since the war simple hasn't been enough.

It's a bitter feeling, and Draco keeps his eyes trained on the ground, unable to meet Ms McCoy's.

How could he? She must think he was lying when he said tha—!

"Good, good," she murmurs.

Draco head snaps up so fast it almost hurts. Ms McCoy is smiling to herself and nodding her head.

"Very good, Draco. It's malleable. You _can_ change it." Her smile turns sly and she catches his eyes. "But don't think it'll be quick or easy. It will take you some time to do it proper."

Hope flares in his chest, and he finds himself smiling at her in turn.

"What do I need to do?"

  


* * *

  


Draco stares at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep. He's seen so much of Cherokee culture already, met so many amazing people in such a short while, and he's set to learn something utterly _amazing_. He's not sure how he'll ever fall asleep. He doesn't know what to do with himself really. How can he? When his mind is spinning as he remembers Alice McCoy's words.

_"You must find something new to tie yourself to. A promise, **an oath,** something equal in power to what your current mark stands for. It doesn't have to be a person, it can simply be a personal conviction... But the oath must be strong, otherwise you'll never overwrite something as dark as this."_

She told him it was his first step and until he knows what his oath will be, what he will place his belief and loyalty in instead, they cannot proceed.

It makes sense, it truly does. And he understands why no one has been able to get rid of their dark mark, why no one before him has been able to change it. After all, most of the marked death eaters didn't actually regret their part, only how it ended. And almost all of them, if not all, still retained quite a few of the beliefs. Draco's father included.

However reluctant, whatever the circumstances behind it, Draco knows that his father did and does still hold some beliefs that remain close enough to some of what the dark mark stands for.

Lucius Malfoy will likely never be rid of his mark.

Draco realises that he will have to live with that. But then again, as long as his father lives, since he _has_ changed in some ways... Draco can and will live with it. Despite it all, he loves his father.

He wonders sometimes if he would have had the strength to say no, to turn against Voldemort's teachings, if his parents had been bad parents. If they hadn't loved him so much.

He still cannot fully reconcile his loving father with the man he was under the Dark Lord.

He spent much of his childhood wanting to be just like his father, looking up to him so much, and now he cannot imagine such a thing.

Draco Malfoy will be his own man, that is beyond any doubt.

But he also knows that his father loves him enough that he won't begrudge him that freedom. Not now, not after everything that’s happened.

Father ran wandlessly and without protection through an active battlefield to find him. He wrapped his body around Draco and his mother to shield them in the only way he could—with his body. He didn't fight at all in the final battle, despite the horrors it would have meant should Voldemort have won.

Sometimes Draco wishes his father could have found that courage earlier, far earlier... But there's no point in dwelling. At least he got there in the end.

Draco is well aware that their complete abandonment of the Dark Lord in the end, before the final battle was even decided, was what kept his parents out of prison.

That, and...

He remembers Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, standing in front of the Wizengamot, face calm but eyes sharp, staring down all of the judges sitting there. He remembers so clearly how he spoke of the battle in the forest, how he went there _to die,_ just to ensure Voldemort would lose... And the pivotal role Draco's mother played in Potter's survival.

Draco's mother saved Harry Potter's life, _lied_ straight in the face of the Dark Lord, all for Draco.

The war wasn't even close to over yet, his mother couldn't have possibly known that Voldemort would lose, and yet... for Draco, she placed her life and the life of her husband, on the belief that Harry Potter would win.

If he'd lost... Her life would have been forfeit for her lie. And yet, she had been willing to risk it. For Draco.

Thinking about it makes Draco want to cry.

His parents aren't perfect, and they did horrible horrible things.

But they love him.

More than anything else.

Family before all others, that is the way of the Malfoy family.

It's how they've survived through the centuries... Through the over one thousand years their family line has been unbroken.

Love is a complicated thing and Draco can only hope that one day he'll have someone he loves and who loves him as much as his parents love each other. But he also hopes, for his own sake, that such a person would hold him responsible and call him out when he does something wrong.

He'll need someone who complements him, someone who sees the world differently.

He turns over in bed and closes his eyes.

He may never find someone. After all, who would want to be with _him_ after all he's done?

Perhaps he'll simply live the rest of his life alone, like Professor Snape... Perhaps it won't be so bad.

He closes his eyes and breathes.

  


* * *

  


He's unable to move, frozen in place. 

The feeling of a cold hand stroking across his cheek, brushing his hair away.

A smell he'd hoped to forget, hands rubbing his shoulders and a familiar voice hissing in his ears:

_"Draco, did you know..."_

  


* * *

  


He wakes up, a strangled scream stuck in his throat.

With shaking hands he finds the calming potion and the dreamless sleep draught. He pouts both of them down his throat, only barely managing to avoid spilling the contents all over himself.

The mark on his arm seems to burn, though he knows it's just his imagination.

He wishes he could forget.


	17. Chapter 17

Draco gestures to the diagrams in his book as he talks to Alice McCoy, a few of the others, and Mrs William about the magic jewellery he learned to make in India as well as the differences he spotted to the jewellery he found in Egypt.

He mentions his theories for why the two arts developed so differently and what kind of things that are likely to influence what the end result of the birth of a new type of magic object—resources, general state of the land around them, how the magic of the place generally functions and is viewed.

Sky and Joe end up wandering by, sitting down in the group to listen, and Draco finds himself repeating a few of the things he'd already said when they ask questions, but he doesn't mind. He wants to share, more than anything.

He wants to discover more; more about himself and more about the world around him.

Sometimes when he listens to his magic, he can feel it humming inside him, as if it's vibrating. He doesn't know what it is his magic wants from him, he doesn't know why its lead him to all these places, but at the same time, he finds that he trusts it.

Everything he's learned, everything he's experienced, has taught him not just about himself, but also about magic and the world around him.

He's a better person for having been to all these places.

Though part of him fears that as soon as he sets his feet on British soil once more, he'll regress. Go back to the Draco Malfoy of old, the boy who bullied and lashed out at the shame of having had his offer of friendship turned down.

Harry Potter had said no, and Draco had vowed to make him _regret it._

He doesn't think he succeeded. In fact, he only proved Potter right. He _could_ tell the right sort for himself, and Draco most certainly was the wrong sort.

It stings, even as Draco admits it to himself.

His pride doesn't want to admit that he was wrong, but he already has. He's sent letters, to more and more people, because of how wrong he was.

To the people he hurt. To the people hurt by his family. To the people hurt by his inaction. To the people he couldn't help.

Perhaps he should have tried harder. Done more. Been less of a terrible person.

But it's too late.

He cannot change the past.

He can only move forward.

Learning, gaining knowledge, and sharing that knowledge with others.

Heal, and heal others.

Perhaps that will be his oath.

_Heal and heal others._

_Learn and teach others._

He likes it.

  


* * *

  


Draco flops down on his bed, tired, but happy.

Time passes quickly, especially when you immerse yourself in something so completely, and Draco has always been good at losing himself in his studies. If he hadn't been a Malfoy, he's quite certain he would have been considered the local nerd to beat down upon in the Slytherin house.

Still, life among the Cherokee magical community—this particular town anyway—is nice. Calming. At least to Draco, especially with how different it is from his home country.

Most things are done the muggle way, and most of the people here seem to not rely as much on their magic as people back home in magical Britain.

He supposes that it makes sense, considering that they use wandless magic. Without the amplification of a wand, magic jewellery, or something else, your capabilities with magic depends a lot more on your individual magical strength. Spells are harder to perform and most likely cost more energy to cast as well.

Still, Draco asks them to teach him. He wants to learn as much as he possibly can about magic... almost _any_ kind of magic.

He finds himself living like everyone around him, and his wand spends a lot of time in his sleeve, unused and waiting. Even so, he picks it up every evening to polish and clean it, holding it close and feeling the magic thrum through it.

He remembers when Potter gave it back to him in such startling clarity. It was after the trial, when they were waiting for father to come back from having been called in to face the Wizengamot _again_ despite their punishments having already been decided upon...

  


* * *

  


Draco feels wrung out and hollow, cold in a way that's deeper and skin... as if the chill lives in his very bones.

Mother, contrary to proper pureblood etiquette, keeps one arm wrapped around his shoulder and she has him pulled in close, as if she fears that he will vanish into smoke if she lets him go for too long.

Draco leans against her, breathing in her perfume, and trying to dream his way back to the early days of his childhood, when the Da—Voldemort was like nothing more than a bad dream, and he was happy.

He remembers warm summer days in the large gardens near Malfoy Manor, chasing the peacocks as his mother's laughter washes over him accompanied by his father's indulgent sighs and quiet chuckles. He remembers being hoisted in the air by his father, being sat upon his shoulders, and suddenly being able to see such long stretches of lands.

He smothers a sigh and squeezes his eyes shut to tamp down on the tears that want to spring forth, tries so hard to ignore the burning sensation in his eyes. Those days went by too quickly.

He doesn't want to think about how many childhoods that were ruined by Voldemort, one way or another.

Someone clears their throat nearby, and Draco opens his eyes to find Potter standing there, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot.

"Mister Potter," mother says, voice unfailingly polite—but Draco can hear some warmth in it, unusual when it comes to someone who's mostly a stranger. Though Draco supposes that Potter has done a lot of things that would endear him to mother.

"Potter," he murmurs and works hard to keep a wince from showing on his face—he sounds so very very tired. More tired than he should.

"I, uh, I came to give you this, Malfoy," Potter says and reaches out a wand, handle first, towards Draco.

His wand.

His lovely 10", hawthorn, unicorn hair wand that Potter ripped from his hands. It seems so long ago now, but it wasn't, not really.

Draco reaches out for it, hopes his hand remains reasonably steady, and closes his hand around the handle.

The feeling that surges through him is not unlike what it felt the first time he ever held it inside of Ollivander's, eleven years old and so excited to have his first proper wand.

It feels like coming home, like his wand recognises him, like it's whispering _"I'm home now"_ in his mind.

"Thank you, Potter," Draco whispers and closes his eyes again.

"It's... It's a good wand. It was loyal to me and served me well, but... I've felt lately like it was waiting for something, looking for something else. I guess that was you." He chuckles, an awkward sound, and Draco lets the side of his mouth twitch upwards in return.

"I'm glad it helped you when you needed it." He's almost surprised to find that it's true. He _is_ glad that his wand helped Potter, worked with him... But the knowledge that it was _Draco's_ wand that somehow defeated the Dark Lord... He doesn't know how to feel about that.

"Thank you very much, Mister Potter. We are in your debt," mother says, voice solemn. "If you ever need something from us, do not hesitate to ask. If it is within our ability to give, we will."

"Uh... thanks. I'd consider us even, you _did_ save my life. Both of you."

"Nevertheless, Mister Potter. No one would have demanded you come here and testify for us."

Draco finds himself slipping out of reality, the sounds of his mother's conversation with Potter fades, and he dozes where he sits, waiting for his father to come back so the aurors and ministry can go about enacting their punishments.

He wants to go home.

Wherever that is now.

  


* * *

  


No matter what he learns, no matter how far he comes, he'll always come back to his wand in the end. It was with him for most of the worst moments of his life, and when it left him, it still came back to him in the end.

He's not sure how, or why, but it makes him want to study wand lore and wand making all the more.

He laughs slightly, trying not to be bitter. He knows there's no way Ollivander would ever deign to teach him even a little bit about his craft, not after he was a prisoner in Draco's family home.

Still, he has his path now. There's no point in lamenting those closed to him. One foot in front of the other, moving forward, is all he can do now.

He hasn't had more lessons with Alice McCoy yet, and he's not willing to push for it either.

She will teach him when she will, and if that is never then so be it. He will not ask for more than what they are willing to give him freely, he has no right to such a thing anyway.

  


* * *

  


"When casting wandlessly, Draco, it's always easiest to channel the magic through your hands and fingers. As such, you must first father it in the palm of your hand, before you can aim it with intent. Anything else is more than likely doomed to fail."

Draco closes his eyes and tries to centre himself, the way he did when he first started learning occlumency from Aunt Bellatrix.

He becomes suddenly aware of his own magical core, it beats in his chest, almost like a second heart. He feels the way it connects to the rest of his body, the way it seems to connect to the air around him.

He does as Mrs Williams said, and tries to move some of his magic to the palm of his right hand.

It goes slowly, but soon he can feel it, just a small trickle that seems to form into a pool of magic in his hand, as if he were cupping water in it.

"Good, very good, Draco." Mrs Williams's voice is warm. "Next, you need to shape your intent, imagine the outcome you're aiming for, and move your magic towards the tip of your fingers, and then release as you say the words of the spell."

A succinct explanation, but it's far harder than it sounds. Still, Draco does his best.

It's taken him two days of constant repetition to be able to pool the magic in the palm of his hand at all, so he would be neither surprised nor upset if he fails to cast a spell on his first try.

Still, he tries. He imagines light hovering in a ball over his hand, a gentle round globe of light. He focuses on the image and on the magic in his palm, before he moves his hand in a gentle circle, ending palm upwards and whispers "Lumos."

"Oh, well done, Draco!"

He opens his eyes and finds himself staring at a ball of light hovering over his palm, just as he imagined. The light in his palm is more blue-tinted than the one he'd imagined, but that's a very minor detail. He feels giddy. He did it!

"I did it!" he says, feeling a smile spread on his face. He can't believe he succeeded.

"Well done, Draco. Well done indeed." Mrs Williams smiles at him, nodding her head and crossing her arms over her chest. She looks pleased, and Draco finds himself laughing softly.

He cast a spell without any form of amplifier.

Amazing.

"Thank you, Mrs Williams," he says and closes his hand, letting the light snuff out.

She smiles at him again, nodding. "Now that you know the basics, I doubt you'll need much more instructions from me. You're a smart boy, and unless you start trying to cast the most difficult and energy consuming spells you know, I'm certain you'll be just fine on your own."

He smiles again.

That's good to hear. That means he'll be able to keep practising even after he leaves the Cherokee Nation.

  


* * *

  


He watches a game of anijodi when Alice McCoy sits down next to him with a loud huff.

He nods to her in greeting, but keeps his eyes on the game. It looks like a lot of fun, and he finds himself missing quidditch a bit, even though he hasn't played it in so long. In fact, he hasn't ridden a broomstick at all in several years.

He finds that he misses it. He'll likely make his parents take a broom trip with him once he comes home, just a small one. Just something they can do now, since father's house arrest has ended.

Still, that will have to wait until he gets back home. And he can feel it in his bones that it's not time. Not quite yet.

"Well. Draco, tell me," Alice McCoy says with little preamble, "Have you considered what oath you will take for your mark?" Her dark eyes are calm, but he swears he can see a hint of apprehension in them.

He wonders if she fears that he will have failed to come up with anything worth enough.

He smiles slightly. "Heal and Heal Others. Learn and Teach Others," he recites the oath, the mantra, he's been thinking of the last week. He worried for a while that perhaps he would feel like the words would lose their meaning, feel weak and cheap, after a while. But they don't. If anything, they feel stronger for every repetition.

Like they're worth something.

She smiles and nods at him. "A worthy goal indeed. And, I think, enough to overwrite the travesty you have on your arm."

He smiles in return. "I'm glad."

They turn their attention back to the game, and Draco finds himself relaxing more than he's used to.

After a few moments of silence, she chuckles again. "You best prepare yourself, Draco. Changing that mark isn't going to be easy. But you'll see, it can be done. And you _will_ do it." She shakes her head. "We'll start a dawn tomorrow. Prepare yourself and meet me here tomorrow at sunrise."

And with those parting words, she gets up from her seat and heads off. Draco watches her leave and rolls his shoulders slightly, a feeling of calm spreading over him.

Perhaps he will be free from any trace of Voldemort on his skin in the end, despite what he's feared.

It's lucky that bruises don't scar.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, it's been a while! Sorry to anyone reading this fic! Life got a bit busy and I kept forgetting. Oops!

If Draco thought that learning wandless magic was hard, if he thought occlumency and legilimens was hard, then he’s now learned that it has nothing on changing a magic mark, one seared so deeply into your skin it even affects your magical core the way the Dark mark does.

Still, he does his best, he listens to Alice McCoy's every instruction and does is best to complete the task she sets before him. Sky and Joe occasionally join in on the lessons, when they're not busy elsewhere, and sometimes Mrs and Mr Williams come by to see how he's doing.

Alice McCoy speaks well of his efforts, clearly of the school that he'll learn better with encouragement than anything else. If Draco's being honest with himself, he's pretty sure she's correct. He doesn't think he'd be able to really take it if she were too critical about his progress when it comes to something like this.

It’s too deeply personal, too awfully sensitive. As if he were poking around with tweezers in a still open wound, trying to pick out shards of glass or something equally terrible.

He knows himself well enough to know that a few years earlier he'd likely give it up and moan melodramatically about how he'll never be free and how he can't do it. He was a real shit at times, wasn't he?

Still, he works hard. He's channelling his inner Hufflepuff—surely _everyone_ has an inner Hufflepuff!—to try and get this going. If the spell requires him to work hard, then by Merlin's beard he _will_ work hard. If he ends up failing because he refused to put in enough effort, he'd never forgive himself.

That would be some utter bollocks, wouldn't it?

  


* * *

  


"You've done so well, Draco. This is the last bit now," Alice says from the other side of the clearing. The moonlight casts a soft glow on Draco's cauldron, and he feels a nervous sweat start to bead in the back of his neck.

What if he fails?

"You know the last bit. You wash your forearm with the potion as you repeat your oath seven times. After the last repetition, you cast the spell as you place your hand over the mark." Even in the dark and from a small distance, Draco can see the smile on her face. "You've practiced it enough times, I know you can do it."

He nods and draws a deep breath.

He can do this.

He dips his right hand in the potions and smooths it over the mark of his left wrist. "Heal and Heal Others. Learn and Teach Others."

He does it again. "Heal and Heal Others. Learn and Teach Others."

And again. "Heal and Heal Others. Learn and Teach Others."

Again. "Heal and Heal Others. Learn and Teach Others."

Again. "Heal and Heal Others. Learn and Teach Others."

Again. "Heal and Heal Others. Learn and Teach Others."

And one final time, the seventh time. "Heal and Heal Others. Learn and Teach Others."

He lets is palm rest over the mark as he whispers the spell, putting all his intentions, all his will into making the spell work, into making this horrid mark change.

He doesn't want Vol... _Riddle_ to have any power over him anymore. He is dust and bones. He holds no sway over Draco's life anymore.

Draco's thoughts are his own. His actions are his own. His body is his own.

Riddle was wrong and barely had a plan or any ideals in the first place. He was wrong and his preachings despicable besides that.

He will never hold sway over Draco ever again.

He feels the mark grow warm beneath his palm, he feels an almost uncomfortable itching sensation as it seems to somehow move around, change, morph.

He waits.

When the sensation fades and Draco removes his hand from his wrist, the faded scar of the Dark Mark is gone, and in its place a lovely silver tree rests.

  


* * *

  


Draco feels punch-drunk for days afterwards. The new mark is _lovely_. He spends hours running his fingers along the intricate lines of the design, idly wondering how something so beautiful could have come from _him_ and _his_ desires.

Alice McCoy's face upon seeing the mark had been a mix of pride and smugness. She looked as if she was both happy with Draco's success, and smug about the fact that she'd been right about him—about who he is now and what he can do.

Draco writes letters home to his friends and family and he knows there's more joy in them than ever before. But he doesn't tell anyone about the mark. He knows there is a chance that all his correspondence with the people closest to him, or anyone else in Britain for that matter, is under surveillance by the ministry.

It's his own ace up his sleeve, his own most personal achievement.

He won't share it with anyone besides those he chooses.

It will have to wait until he returns home.

He cannot properly explain to the lovely people he's met here in the Cherokee nation how much it means to him. He cannot properly form the words to express his gratitude, how humbled he is by their kindness.

They've shared not just their culture and their way of magic with him, but they've helped him reclaim a part of himself he thought he'd lost forever.

Draco had expected to carry Riddle's mark on him for the rest of his life, forever shamed and haunted by his own arm.

But he won't.

The new mark on his arm is a source of strength.

A remembrance of what was, of his mistakes, but also of what he aims to do with the rest of his life. A sign not just of the past, but also of the future.

A sign of hope that he can be better, do better.

A sign that he may have a future at all.

  


* * *

  


Blood.

Blood and screams everywhere.

The hissing of a snake in his ears.

The scraping of bones against bones.

The sickening crack of a bone snapping.

_"Crucio."_

Screams that echo in the darkness.

A hand, cold and with long spindly fingers, sliding down his chest.

A firm chest pressing against his back.

Heavy breathing in his ears, so very similar to the hiss of a snake.

His heart hammers in his chest so hard he fears it may break his ribs.

His breathing choked and gasping, his eyes so wide they're watering and starting to hurt.

Another hand sliding up his arm, deceptively gently, before it clenches harshly around his shoulder.

_"Draco."_

His own forced stillness, refusing to let the shudder that desperately wants to course through him have its way.

The hand on his chest slides back up.

Cold fingers wrapping around his throat.

_"Draco, did you know..."_

The words fade into a drawn-out hiss, soon overpowered screams of anguish that rips through the air.

The fingers around his throat tightens.

The strong coiling body of a large snake slowly starts to coil its way up along his body.

_"Crucio."_

Blinding pain sears through his body.

He screams, he struggles.

He hands on his body tightens.

He's choking even as he screams.

  


* * *

  


Draco wakes up screaming.

His throat feels raw and he's awfully aware of how wet his cheeks are.

Tremors shudder through his entire body and he curls in on himself, trying to make himself as small as possible.

The memory of the pain is... He cannot quite remember how bad it was. He thinks its his brains way of trying to protect itself. It's forcefully forgetting just how bad it was.

He reaches for his stock of dreamless sleep, but comes up empty.

He's run out.

He's been careless. Ever since his mark changed he's been so busy enjoying his days, enjoying life among the Cherokee, that he's forgotten to be careful of how bad his nights can be.

He pulls his hand back beneath the covers and chokes on his sobs.

He can't go back to sleep. He _can't_.

Not if that is what awaits him.

He slides out of bed. The floor is cool beneath his bare feet, and Draco tries to anchor himself to the present using the chill of it, the utter realness of the floorboards against the soles of his feet.

He moves to the window slowly, each step feels like it takes an eternity, to look outside.

The stars are lovely at night.

It's comforting to know that he's beneath the same sky as the one he used to watch as a child.

In the light of the stars Draco traces the silver lines of his Oath Mark.

Over and over and over.

It's almost hypnotic, though the feeling of the pad of his finger running gently against the fragile skin of his inner wrist is almost ticklish.

He wonders what his parents will say when they see it.

He hopes that it, along with the amulets he bought from Ojo and Yetunde, helps give them a sense of peace.

At least when it comes to Draco.

He feels an ache in his chest and a lump in his throat.

He misses them.

Perhaps he'll write them another letter tomorrow morning.

He smooths one hand across the dried tear tracks on his face. Perhaps he should go clean it before he heads back to bed, but exhaustion weighs him down.

He drags himself back to bed and burrows beneath the blankets.

He doesn't fall asleep, even as he closes his eyes and tries.

He breathes the time away, far too aware of the beating of his heart and the occasional hitching of his breath.

Time passes slowly, so so slowly.

He doesn't fall asleep until dawn is already approaching, its light starting to rise above the horizon.

He sleeps.

  


* * *

  


He stays in the small Cherokee town for another few weeks. He continues to work on his wandless casting and participating as much as he can in the daily activities of the town.

Just like most of the places he's visited during his trip, he will miss it sorely when he leaves.

It's as parts of who he _is_ came from these places, as if he who he was and who he is was been sewn together by using thread created by these communities.

When he feels that same tug to leave again, it's bitter sweet.

It's Joe who notices first. He looks at Draco, his dark eyes knowing, before he nods, seemingly to himself.

"Where are you heading next?" he asks, putting his fork down and waiting for Draco's answer.

The rest of the family pause and turn to Joe, their eyes questioning, though none of them speak any words aloud.

Draco shrugs one shoulder awkwardly and clears his throat. "I'm not sure yet. I was planning on pulling out my world map after dinner to see if I can get a feel for where I should be heading next."

Sky tilts her head to the side. "Do you decide randomly or do you use some form of divination?"

Draco chuckles. "I... I try to listen to my magic. I'm still very much a novice when it comes to divination, and what I know is the Koorie's form of divination, quite different from what I would have learned at home anyway." He takes a bite of food, taking his time to enjoy it. He knows it will be his last meal with the Williams family, and he wants to savour it.

"Well," Mr Williams chuckles, "I'd say it doesn't seem to have led you astray so far." There's a twinkle in his eyes, and Draco finds himself laughing just slightly.

"No, I would say it hasn't."

It really and truly hasn't.

  


* * *

  


He puts the large map up on the dinner table. The Williams family clusters around it as he looks at it.

His travel route is shining a light blue across the map, showing where he's been and in which order he went to the different places.

Sky runs her finger along the blue line and Draco finds himself watching her finger, ever as he knows he should be thinking of where he should go next.

He wonders if perhaps he should go somewhere else in South America.

He places his hand over the continent on his map and closes his eyes, focusing on is breathing.

Nothing.

No tug.

Somewhere else then.

Perhaps somewhere else in Africa? He only stayed in Egypt and Nigeria for any longer period of time, and merely passed through the other countries he saw.

But no, no reaction there either.

He moves his hand across the map, oddly aware of the fact that he's being watched. Still, he pushes it out of his mind and continues to try and get a feel for where he should go next.

His palm is brushing over Russia when he feels a slight tug.

To the west.

He frowns.

He doesn't... He doesn't want it to be time to head home. Not yet.

He's not ready yet.

But the tug is insistent. Head west.

So he lets his hand slowly inch towards the left on the map, closer and closer to the British isles.

It's when he's directly over Sweden that it feels like he's finally found the right place.

He blinks down at the map.

Sweden... Northern Europe...

"Looks like I'm heading to Scandinavia next," he murmurs, eyes trained on the map.

He's not sure where in Sweden he'll go, no yet, but he finds himself enjoying the idea.

He wonders what it'll be like.

It can't be _that_ different from the UK, surely?

He wonders what it is he has to learn from there. But whatever it is, he's sure it'll be _fascinating,_ everything else has been so far.

There's no reason this would be anything different, is there?

He says his goodbyes and starts preparing for his trip.

He'll take a road trip to the international port-key office, he thinks.

He hasn't done any muggle transportation in a while. It'll probably be fun.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These edits took me a while, but here we are! Next chapter up! :D

" _You_ aren't from here, are you?" a voice calls out from behind Draco.

He turns around and finds a girl somewhere around his own age, if he had to guess, with her brown hair in a ponytail and a sly grin on her face. She's wearing muggle clothing—jeans, he thinks the trousers are called, but they have large holes in them— but she has a wand in one of her hands.

Draco is actually surprised to have someone talk to him. Ever since he arrived in the area, the only people who have spoken to him at all have been people whose job it is to interact with him. The conductors on the trains, the workers in the shops... And even then it’s been rather perfunctory, the bare minimum. Not _rudely,_ just… distant.

None of the other people even really look at him at all. They don't seem to be talking to each other much either. In fact, everyone seems to be quite the silent types… At least in public. It’s rather familiar from what he’s seen of some parts of muggle London, but his general experience in Wiltshire and even Diagon Alley has always been more… Well, people talk with each other. A bit, at least. Not so much with _him,_ generally, not even before the war, but… Well...

"Er... How could you tell?" He wonders if it’s his robes. Once he arrived back in Europe he dressed in his regular robes, instead of the travelling clothes he'd worn during the rest of the trip. Still, no one's said anything to he'd assumed that he was fine, but now he's starting to reconsider that assessment. It’s entirely possible that people have thought he was weird but unwilling to say anything. If they weren’t talking to him about anything else, why would they talk to him about his clothes?

The girl laughs. "You're wearing _robes_. No one really does that here." She shrugs one shoulder. "We live too close with the non-magical folk. It’s generally just for festive occasions in the home, _and_ our fashion is slightly different from yours."

"Ah." Draco bites his lip. He wonders how they consider themselves to be living too close to the muggles when it seems so deserted, as if there's just too much space for the amount of people living there.

She turns around and waves her hand at him. "Come one, I'll take you to the magic street, Storgatan, and we'll get you sorted."

Draco finds himself following the strange girl, though he's utterly confused by the whole meeting. She’s a complete opposite to most of the people he’s seen so far, all of them turned inwards and not paying the people around them much attention beyond “need to move so they can get off this mode of transportation”.

She takes him down a few scarcely populated streets—for how large the city is, the population seems very small. He finds it rather disconcerting how few people are out and about, actually. It's in the middle of the day, there should be more of them. Especially considering he's apparently in the muggle parts of the city right now.

She places her hand on the side of a building, next to a door, and a sign suddenly appears on it that says something that Draco can only guess means "open" because she nods to herself and grabs the handle. She opens the doors and moves her head in a way that implies that he should follow her inside.

He does and enters a very cosy looking building. He wonders if the parents of muggles are ever startled by the suddenly appearing sign, the way their British equivalents no doubt are by the stones to Diagon Alley suddenly moving out of the way.

He looks around the room, lovely wood panelling all around and a small bar area and a glass counter with a lot of pastry. All in all, it simply looks like a very cosy café more than anything.

He has no idea why she's taken him to such a place, but when he asks her, she just laughs.

"This is just one of the entryways. You have that wherever you're from too, right? The main street hidden away behind other things and those in turn also hidden by magic. Even _if_ someone non-magical manages to stumble in here, they're just gonna think it's a café. Hiding in plain sight, as it were."

He nods his head in understanding. That does make sense, it’s very much the same sort of thing as the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley. Still, he finds himself completely out of his depth having followed her here, he doesn't even know her name.

"I'm sorry, but who are you?" Perhaps it's a rude way of him to ask, but he really doesn't know who she is, and he feels slightly out of sort to be following a stranger like this. For all he knows she might be leading him into an ambush. Having a name would at least give him some sense of control, regardless of how little truth there is to that idea.

"Linnea Hammarström, at your service." She gives him a wink and a theatrical bow. "And who might you be?"

Draco coughs slightly and shifts from foot to foot. "Draco Malfoy. I'm from the UK," he murmurs, avoiding eye-contact.

Linnea's eyes widen and her mouth drops open. "No way! Malfoy? As in the British war Malfoy?"

Draco winces, but nods. Might as well get it over with.

"Seems like a raw deal, having that maniac running about your home. Can't say I know much about it, though I know you were convicted and put on probation." She shrugs inelegantly. "But if you're here, all out in the open and willing to say your name, you must have finished it and been released, huh?"

Draco blinks at her, surprised by this turn of events. He nods. "Yes, I was given a year of probation and wand monitoring, as well as a set grade average for my exams for when I finished my schooling."

Linnea nods. "Fair enough. Well then, Draco, come along. Let's get you to a hotel first, shall we? Or do you already have somewhere to stay?"

"Oh," Draco says, at loss for words. "No, I just arrived. So I do indeed need somewhere to stay, yes."

"Excellent! We only have one wizarding hotel here, so sometimes people check into non-magical hotels, but I dunno if I'd recommend that, really. Most of them aren't built with magic in mind, not unless they're in old buildings that have been repurposed."

She starts moving again, and Draco finds himself scrambling to catch up to her. It's undignified, but he's startled enough by her nonchalance that he doesn't care. She isn't looking at him anyway.

As soon as he catches up to her, he relaxes, and his stride becomes much more graceful—the way his parents taught him.

"I'm... very grateful. You've been very helpful. I was slightly lost, I'm afraid." He glances at her.

"You're welcome. No one's likely to say anything about the way you looked; we're like that here, we don't really talk to strangers, but I realised you were probably lost so I figured I should push through it and be helpful.” She laughs, and Draco allows himself a chuckle.

"I suppose I'm lucky I wasn't wearing full dress robes." He stops the wince that wants to break out on his face at the thought.

Linnea's laugh turns into outright cackling. "That could possibly actually have gotten you some comments despite it all."

"Possibly." He shakes his head at the ridiculousness of it all. He truly had expected Sweden to be more like what he was used to at home, but from what he remembers of London... perhaps Northern Europe is just slightly different from Wiltshire and more like London that way. Or perhaps it’s something to do with larger cities?

Not that Europe is a monolith in any way, so it’s entirely possible that big cities in other parts of Europe aren’t as… Avoid talking to anyone you don’t explicitly know.

"So, what brings you here, Draco?" Linnea's face is open, and her questions _seem_ genuine. So far, she's been entirely polite, though he's still slightly disconcerted by the way she shrugged away his past. She may just be genuinely curious about it.

He allows himself a smile. "I've been travelling around the world to... Well, see what magic and the magical communities look like in different parts of the world. I've been trying to learn as much as I can before I head back to Britain."

His travel diary is still in his backpack, shrunken down in his pocket, otherwise he'd probably be unable to resist the temptation to pull it out and start talking about it. Teaching, as per his oath.

"Oh wow," Linnea says, her voice dreamy. "I've always wanted to travel the world... Well, maybe one day!" She laughs.

"It's been amazing. I've learned so much more about magic than I ever really consider I could." He shrugs. "Magic that uses other amplifiers than wands, wandless magic, potion ingredients I only could have dreamed of..."

Linnea hums. "Are you hoping to see if there's something new for you to learn here as well?"

"Yeah. Though I will admit that I'd always assumed that Sweden, much like a lot of Europe, mostly uses wand-based magic rooted in Latin." He shrugs slightly, hoping she won't take offense.

"Yeah, we do use that. But we also have a tradition of incantations in our native language, as well as spells in Old Norse." She laughs. "And we use crows rather than owls for letters and as pets." She turns to look at him then, a sly smile on her face. "It's much more inconspicuous."

Draco nods in understanding, and they walk in silence for a while.

The magic street, Storgatan Linnea called it, is similarly scarce of people. It's not _empty_ , there are certainly quite a few people here, but it's not as bustling as Diagon Alley.

"There it is, Flygande Höken. Just down the street," Linnea says and points to a large building in the distance.

Draco assumed Linnea would leave as soon as they'd reached the hotel, but she'd actually stayed with him while he booked the hotel room and paid for it, receiving his room key.

"Do you mind if I continue to keep you company?" she asks suddenly as Draco puts his key in his pocket. "I'm curious about your trip, so..." She trails off.

Draco turns his head, looking closely at her and considers his options.

As anti-social as most of the Swedish people—magical or no—has seemed so far, finding someone else to talk to might actually be difficult. And Linnea seems nice enough, he doesn't mind her company...

"No, I don't mind. In fact, it would be nice to have someone to talk to for a bit. I haven't really talked to anyone for days since I started on the trip from Paris." He smiles at her, and Linnea beams.

"Great!" She claps her hands together. "Do you want to put your things in your room and change? Or are you hungry and want to go eat, maybe?"

Draco considers it. His luggage is shrunk down so there's no hardship in carrying it around, but he should perhaps change out of his robes first. And maybe freshen up a bit.

"I'll take a short trip to my room, I think. How about we meet up here again in... say, thirty minutes? And maybe after that, we could go eat something?" He does feel somewhat hungry.

He wonders what Swedish food is like.

"Alright! See you in thirty minutes, Draco!"

  


* * *

  


The restaurant Linnea chooses is cosy and as he looks over the menu—which shifts to display everything in English for him—he sees Linnea squirm slightly in her seat.

"Is something wrong?" Draco tilts his head to the side. It was her idea to come here, he can't see why she suddenly seems uncomfortable.

She startles. "Oh, no, it's nothing. I just..." She scratches her cheek and licks her lips. "You can turn me down, and I'm sorry if this is sensitive but... Can I see your mark?"

Draco blinks at her and then he glances towards his left wrist. "Is that why you invited me here?" He hopes not, he really does.

"No!" She looks properly horrified at the thought. "No, I'm just curious. You don't even have to show me at all and it's _not_ why I suggested dinner. I really am curious about your trip, it sounded fascinating."

Draco nods slowly and sighs gently in relief. "Good. And… I'm afraid that I can't show it to you. It's... gone." He glances to the side. It's not quite the truth, but near enough, he thinks.

Linnea gapes at him. "No way! The newspaper said the mark was impossible to remove! That's _amazing_ then, how did you do it?"

Draco puts the menu down, without having finished deciding what to order, and pulls his sleeve up, showcasing the intricate tree mark now adorning it.

"I didn't remove it. But I spent time with the Cherokee and they knew a way to _change_ it. It required complete repudiation of what the mark stood for, as well as creating an oath for myself. Something of equal strength to what the Dark Mark stood for."

Linnea leans over the table, gaping at the Oath Mark. "It's _beautiful,"_ she whispers, awed. "What was your oath? If you don't mind me asking, that is."

Draco smiles slightly. "Heal and Heal Others. Learn and Teach Others." He won't even shy away from it, he's _proud_ of his oath.

"That's lovely. Are you planning on becoming a healer, then? Or a teacher?" Linnea sits back up in her seat, picking up her menu prompting Draco to pull his sleeve down again and instead focus his attention back to the menu.

"I was hoping to become a healer, actually. But I'm not sure if I'll be able to, what with my past." He keeps his face calm and his tone even. There's no need to dump his worries on a near-perfect stranger, as friendly as she's been.

Linnea nods in understanding. "I get it. Well, I wish you good luck. Now, let's get something to eat, and then you can tell me all about your trip! Get some of that Teach Others in." She winks at him with an impish smile, making Draco laugh.

The dinner is good, and as soon as they finish, Linnea moves to sit down next to Draco so he can show her things from his travel diary more properly.

He gestures to his jewellery as he explains it, and even pulls his amulet up from beneath his shirt so she can admire Ojo and Yetunde's fantastic craftsmanship.

"This is _amazing,_ " Linnea whispers as she holds one of Draco's bracelets aloft. "And this works as a wand?"

"Well, yes. It's not quite as focused, and it has not inherent direction the way a wand does. But the base principle of amplification is the same."

"And it _looks_ love," she laughs and hands the bracelet back to Draco.

"That it does. Diya is an amazing teacher, and I'm very grateful that she was willing to teach me at all. Honestly, I would very much recommend you to go to India to learn it for yourself if you're interested."

Linnea hums. "Perhaps I will."

There's a short pause, but it's not at all awkward, as Draco puts his bracelet back on. It took him quite some time, but he has finally gotten used to wearing so much jewellery. The long hair is still a work in progress, however. He can never decide if he wants it in a messy bun, hanging freely, in a ponytail, or braided.

"Say, Draco."

"Hm?"

"What would you say about learning Swedish chant magic from my mother? And maybe some Old Norse from my father?"


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken me so long! I have absolutely no excuse!
> 
> But here we are! An update!

Mr and Mrs Hammarström are not quite what Draco expected. Especially since he can tell that they immediately recognise him—they recognise his face the way their daughter had recognised his name—but they make no comment on it at all. Instead they merely introduce themselves as Johanna and Sven and invite him inside.

He wonders if Linnea has talked to them about it in advance, but he doesn't say anything in the end. He _would_ ask, but he's not sure if he wants the answer.

The house they live in is certainly small compared to Malfoy Manor, but it's larger than a lot of houses Draco has seen back home. It has a bottom floor and a first floor, as well as an attic for storage and a basement that would be liveable but is apparently used as a potions room.

They invite him into a cheery looking kitchen and ask him if he wants anything to drink.

Soon he has a steaming cup of tea in front of him and a million questions to ask.

Linnea had called it chanting magic, and he is desperately curious about it. How it works, what it's used for... Everything. He can barely wait to find out... _If_ they're willing to tell him.

"Linnea mentioned that you're curious to learn about chants, is that right?" Johanna says and pushes a lock of her long blonde hair behind her ear.

"Absolutely. She didn't give me any details about what it entails—though from the name I assume that chanting is involved," he says the last bit with a wink and it earns him a laugh. "At any rate, the name itself piqued my interest and I absolutely do want to know more about it. Learn it if I could and you would be willing to teach me, but just more general knowledge about the type of magic at all would be fantastic as well."

Johanna's eyes are shrewd as she watches him, but she nods. "I recognise your type of earrings, I spent some time in India in my youth, so I'd wager that you're learning about all kinds of magic, aren't you?"

And once more, Draco loses himself in talking about his trip and everything he's learned, pulling out his travel journal with its illustrations and diagrams, to point at them as he talks.

Sven strokes his chin, nodding. "So, where did you get this journal? I can tell there's a fair bit of magic surrounding it. Could you tell me more about it?" He strokes a big finger down one of the pages.

"I made it, before I left on my trip. I don't need ink to write, I can just project my thoughts directly onto the pages—which allows me to perfectly replicate any image or diagram I see—and I can just as easily erase the text with a thought." Draco puffs his chest out with pride, unable to help himself. Even now, years later, he's proud of his creation. "It will open on any page I wish; it's charmed to never run out of pages, but it will never become too thick either. It's also charm-locked to me, so if it's stolen from me, the pages will be blank."

At the time of creation, Draco had only added that feature because he had wanted some form of lock on it, since he would be writing his own intimate thoughts down into it.

However, as he started writing down more sensitive information—such as the ways of creating magic jewellery—he's been truly grateful for it. It means he doesn't need to worry about the diary ending up in the wrong hands and information guarded through generations being leaked to someone who wasn't trusted with it by its keepers.

"Magnificent," Sven murmurs and gently takes the journal from Draco, to look at it in different angles. "Truly, this is incredible charm work. I'm very impressed."

Draco flushes slightly. "Thank you, I'm very proud of it."

It is, perhaps, his only incredible creation in which there is no malice, nothing to feel guilty about. It's his own magnificent charm work, the kind of thing he _should_ be proud of, but without any sort of horrible undertone. Not even the lesser kind like the Potter Stinks badges, or the worse kind like the repaired vanishing cabinet.

Merely pure unadulterated charm work for an entirely fair purpose.

It felt good, to create something like it.

He knows he wants the feeling again. He wants to create _more._ Perhaps, if he becomes a healer, he can create a cure. Wouldn't _that_ be magnificent? He's had a taste of it, with the potion he and Hannah created—he wonders how far it has gotten in the testing process, Hannah will surely update him on that soon enough—and it's an almost addictive feeling.

Johanna smiles. "You _should_ be. Like Sven said, it's very impressive." There's a twinkle in her eyes. "And it certainly tells me that perhaps you _can_ learn what we can teach you. I am, at least, willing to let you try."

Draco feels like he lights up inside. "Are you sure?" The words tumble out of him before he can stop them, eager and inelegant. "We _did_ just meet, so I understand if you don't feel comfortable teaching me something that's surely culturally important to you."

Sven nods his head slightly. "That is true, but you'll have to make a choice here, Draco. Chanting or Old Norse. I'm afraid we can't teach you both, so you'll have to choose one."

Draco bites his lip and considers it. Both of them sound fascinating, but... Well, perhaps Old Norse will be closer to what Latin is. Just another magic language. Chanting sounds like something entirely different...

"Would you... Would you give me a moment to think about it?" He looks at them, and they give him encouraging nods. Well then.

He closes his eyes, and starts counting his breaths, one by one.

He tries to attune himself to his own magic, the way he's done when looking at the maps, when he's tried to find his next destination.

Should he learn chanting? Or should he learn Old Norse?

Time passes slowly as he turns the options over in his head until he comes to a conclusion. Perhaps it _should_ have been easy, but he'd wanted to be certain.

"I'd like to learn chanting, if that's alright," he finally says, opening his eyes once more.

Linnea laughs. "Well then, I'll be sitting in on your lessons. I'm terrible at it, so getting a refresher can only do me good."

She winks at him, and Draco joins in her laughter. Allowing himself to be free in it.

  


* * *

  


Whatever Draco had expected of chanting, it sure wasn't _this._

He finds himself standing outside in the small garden behind the Hammarström house, _barefoot in the grass,_ in a small circle with Johanna and Linnea.

"Kom, kom min vind. Må du vina, må du vina. Kom, kom min vind. Må du vina, må du vina... Blås." Johanna chants the words gently, and the light breeze around them picks up, gathering strength until it's quite strong, causing their hair to fly in disarray. The last word is a complete break from the chant, said with conviction and like an order.

Draco has no idea what Johanna said, but he assumes it has something to do with wind. "You didn't mention chanting is done in Swedish... nor did you mention that it's done barefoot."

Honestly, barefoot? In a country this far north? It's late spring, and the weather is currently quite mild, but if chanting can only be done during the warmer months, that's certainly a shame.

Linnea giggles. "Oh please, you can just cast a warming charm on your feet if you need it. You should see my cousin Elvira, she'll be barefoot in two decimetres of snow and not even blink an eye— _without_ a warming charm."

"While that is true," Johanna's voice is warm with amusement, "Being barefoot is not necessary for chanting. However, being barefoot _does_ give you a direct connection to the earth which allows you to draw on the strength of the world's own magic as well as your own."

Sven barks a laugh from where he's sitting on the patio, sunglasses on and a cup of coffee in his hand. "You should see Johanna's brother, Mikael. The man will not cast any even slightly complicated spell without having been barefoot on the ground for at least five minutes beforehand. Went outside in a huge snowstorm in '95 once for a spell, the absolute madman."

Draco finds himself almost growing dizzy with how his head turns from side to side as he stares at all of them, uncertain of who he should look at.

"I... I have never heard of someone being barefoot do drawn on the earth's magic before..." He nearly stumbles over the words, but he does manage to get them out in the end.

Johanna looks surprised. "You haven't? Well... I suppose that's something we do here then." She gives him a small wink. "I'd suggest you try it with a spell you know well so you can compare the effects when you do it on your own and when you use the earth."

"I... I suppose." Draco feels slightly out of sorts. He's never considered walking around barefoot to be able to cast stronger spells before. It sounds utterly mad, but if they say it works... Well... He'll have to try it later—in _private_ —he supposes.

"To get back to the _chanting,_ Draco, the chant is split into two parts: the repeated chanting, and the final command word. The wind strengthening chant I used before—which dates back to the Viking age, actually, though I was using modern Swedish for it—has a two-part repeated chant that translates to something like 'Come, come my wind. May you blow, may you blow.'—which is repeated at least once, though the more repetitions the stronger the spell—and then the command word is 'Blow', though the blow I used in the chant is different from the command word. The word I used in the chant is actually used when the wind blows so hard that it can be heard, but I don't know any better word for it in English than 'blow', I'm afraid."

Draco nods. "Is there a reason you used two different words for blow in the chant and the command?"

Johanna nods, face serious. "Yes. You _never_ use a word from the repeated chant as the command word. To do so is to invite trouble, and your chant will fail... and in a worst-case scenario even blow up in your face—sometimes literally."

Draco's heart skips a beat and his eyes widen. "Merlin," he murmurs. That's... That's certainly a steep price.

"Indeed," Johanna says, nodding to herself. "So, to learn chanting, Draco, you're going to have to study quite a fair bit of Swedish, I'm afraid."

She laughs at the worried look on Draco's face. He hadn't expected _language_ studies.

"Don't worry about it, Draco," Linnea says with a grin. "You're a wizard, there are some spells to help you pick up on the pronunciation! Non-magical folk don't have that kind of advantage." The grin on her face takes and always evil turn, and Draco has to restrain himself from sticking his tongue out at her.

Honestly.

"I suppose I will have to look into Swedish studies as well, then..." he mumbles, and shifts from foot to foot. They're starting to feel really really cold, but he doesn't want to complain. Not when they're trying to teach him something. He refuses to do something that would rescind the offer.

Had he been home he would no doubt have been complaining about his cold feet several minutes ago, he thinks with an amused huff.

Ah, how cumbersome the manners his mother made sure to teach him can be at times.

Truly, he suffers.

  


* * *

  


Once he's started, he ends up going down the rabbit hole entirely when it comes to chanting spells. He discusses and learns the theory and history from Sven—who, as it turns out, is a magic history teacher at the local school.

"We have many magic schools here, Draco," Sven had said when explaining his job, "And they're not boarding schools at all. The students go to school in the morning and come home in the evenings. Usually through a family member side-along apparating them or by using the floo system. There are also multi-step portkeys that work a bit like buses that pick up several children before arriving at the school, time activated of course. We don't really have a tradition of boarding schools here."

The concept seemed very foreign to Draco, he couldn't imagine _not_ going to Hogwarts and he’s never considered what the children who don’t go to Hogwarts do instead. Though he supposes that for some students, going home every day would have been good.

Harry Potter's face popped up in his mind then, and he realised that on the flip side it had also been very lucky that Hogwarts _was_ a boarding school for some students. At least if the rumours he's heard about Potter's relatives are true. That was as far as he had been willing to let his thoughts stray. It wouldn’t do for him to let his thoughts linger on Potter for too long.

Still, the history and applications of chanting magic is _fascinating._

The Vikings had used them to always have wind in their sails, to travel faster and be well rested due to less need for rowing once they arrived. Farmers has always used it both to call rain and sun for their crops.

The most interesting facts of all, possibly, was when Johanna told him that some healers had used chants as healing spells to great effect.

She'd lent him three different books on the subject once he'd expressed interest in it.

He practices his Swedish as much as he can, throwing himself into the language to try and get a good feel for it. He's learning the general type of structure of chanting spells _and_ he's learning a lot of already existing and effective spells, but he wants to be able to create his own. He wants to be able to use it as the art form it is, not just as something to read out loud as a grocery list.

It deserves more than that.

  


* * *

  


_‘Draco, did you know…’_

The dinner Sven cooked, ‘Sjömansbiff’, is delicious, but Draco can’t help how his thoughts stray back that horrible memory over and over again. He’s not sure _why_ he feels like he should ask, find out if it’s true… it’s not like it really _matters_ or not.

A subtle threat is a threat, regardless of whether or not it’s based in falsehood.

“Something on your mind, Draco?” Johanna says then, startling Draco out of his thoughts. He blinks at her and smiles awkwardly.

“Well, I do have a question regarding, well, Swedish culture, I suppose… But it’s not a very… I mean.” He pauses, unsure of how to continue. It’s not exactly an _unpleasant_ question, but it’s also not necessarily something one would like to discuss over the dinner table.

“Go ahead, unless it’s something terribly… hmm… äckligt… äckligt…” Sven trails off, stroking his chin, seemingly having lost the word.

“Disgusting,” Linnea says around a mouthful of food, though she holds her hand up to cover the sight at least.

“Oh, yes! Unless it’s something _disgusting_ that might make us lose our appetite, you can just ask.” Sven smiles widely and then tucks back into his food.

Draco clears his throat awkwardly and eats a few more bites of his food before he finally takes the plunge.

“Someone… once told me that in Sweden, close male relatives of the deceased wear white ties to the funeral.” He swallows convulsively, the image of a small black box with a white silk tie nestled inside swimming before his eyes. “Is that true?”

Linnea shrugs, and continues to eat, though she glances at her parents.

Johanna nods. “It’s true,” she says before she takes another bite, chews, and swallows. “Son, brother-in-law, father, grandchild.”

“I’m not sure how old the tradition is,” Sven strokes his chin. “I think it used to be that you could always wear a white tie to a funeral, but also choose to have a black one if you weren’t closely related. These days though… these days you wear a white one if you are a close relative.”

“It’s interesting how these things evolve, isn’t it?” Johanna says with a small laugh.

Draco manages a small tremulous smile. “Yes, very.”

It doesn’t _matter_ that it’s true. He shouldn’t have asked. He’d have spared himself if he hadn’t asked.

  


* * *

  


"Lumos!"

The light from Draco's wand is almost overwhelming. He's never cast such a bright Lumos before. He glances down at his bare feet, feeling the soft grass beneath them, and strokes his chin.

He'll have to do more testing, but so far it seems like they were telling the truth.

Being barefoot _can_ in fact increase your magical capabilities if you're standing directly on the ground.

Fascinating.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's reading this story!

Draco feels nerves bubble in his gut as he prepares to take a portkey home.

Home.

It's been two years since he last set his foot on British soil, but now he's going back. Back to the place that was his home for the first eighteen years of his life.

He'd felt it once Johanna had deemed him well advanced enough to continue studying on his own. It was time to go home, back to where he's spent the majority of his life. Back to where his friends and family are.

Back to where his nightmares were born.

He informed his parents of his scheduled arrival at the British international portkey station, and all he can do now is wait for his portkey to be finished. Wait for it to take off. He doesn't particularly enjoy waiting, but he can be patient. You cannot be good at potions without patience, so even though his parents may have fostered impatience in his soul by spoiling him, he'd learned patience in potions class and in his own studying for it.

He looks down at his portkey. It's a simple wooden sphere—a commonly used object for this kind of single-person official portkeys that travel between international offices—and it's smooth to the touch. It should activate in about five minutes, and Draco feels as if his nerves are trying to scrape him raw on the inside.

He's in his proper robes, and he's wearing his long hair loose, but neatly brushed. His skin his clear—the tan even his stubbornly pale skin had developed over the months he spent in warmer and sunnier countries, has started to fade from his time in Sweden—and he looks... Good. Healthy. He looks as put together as he can, as is expected of him. He may have allowed himself vulnerability in the form of dishevelment while travelling, but he absolutely cannot do the same in Britain.

The haughty appearance of a pureblood noble is his only shield and protection. After all, if someone decides to go after him with a hex and he defends himself, he has no doubts about who would get the blame. Looking put together is the only way he can have any sort of chance of deny being the aggressor. Any sort of casual dress and they may just claim he’s lost his mind.

The irony of needing to be tightly constrained to the role of a Proper Pureblood to protect himself from people who _hate him_ for being one is not lost on Draco.

He may not have been sentenced to Azkaban, but he has no illusions regarding how the general public is likely to look upon him and his family. It may be slightly smoothed out, diluted, by their defection during the battle—their defection before anyone knew what the result of the war would be—but he's certain there are people out there who would happily hex him into an early grave.

But despite it all he cannot wait to see his parents again. Can't wait for them to see him looking _well._

It's only by comparing what he sees in the mirror now to what he saw before he left for it to be startlingly clear how unwell he looked. He wonders how much of the kindness he was shown came from how unwell he looked, simple pity for an unwell child, but he shakes the thoughts away. Initial kindness may have been shown because of it, but it would certainly not have been enough for any teachings.

Not pity, just genuine kindness.

He smiles to himself. He has a lot of letters to write as soon as he comes back home. He considers it and thinks he should probably include a photo, especially to Diya and the Liangs. They saw him when he looked his worst, when the nightmares were still constant, when he was still at risk of desensitising himself to the potions due to how often he needed to take them. He wants them to see that he's _better._ He's not... not quite good, not yet. But he's so much better.

There's a tug in his navel and Draco almost startles. He'd been so lost in thought he'd entirely forgotten he was holding a portkey in his hands. He closes his eyes and waits, he'll land soon enough, there's nothing now that needs his input anyway. All he needs to do is hold on.

  


* * *

  


"Welcome back to England, Mr Malfoy," the witch who registers his wand says with a blank facial expression. There's nothing friendly to be found in her face, but no outright hostility either—merely the placid blankness of a person who's doing their job and cannot give the slightest bit of energy to care about anything beyond that. It’s almost comforting.

"Thank you," he says with a polite smile that doesn't reach his eyes, and finally leaves the landing area.

The official international portkey stations are always so… Stiff and precisely laid out. Understandable of course, you don’t want someone to end up landing in a rubbish bin outside a muggle restaurant or some such nonsense… But it’s still a rather disquieting feeling in the entire area.

He continues out to the waiting hall where his parents will no doubt be, and he's so very eager to finally see them again. He has to restrain himself from simply running, but this too is part of the Proper Pureblood mask.

When he finally arrives in the room, his parents are easy to spot, even in the crowd. Tall, pale and blond, regal in their bearing, the very picture of calm wizarding nobility despite the fact that his father is only just off house arrest and still under probation.

"Mother! Father!" he calls out to them, striding forward with his head held high and every inch of him moving with the poise and grace befitting an heir of the Malfoy family—even if their name has been disgraced and their reputation tarnished. That can be fixed, sooner or later, though it may take a few generations. Draco has no hopes that their name will not cause sneers to appear on the faces of people who speak it within his lifetime. The second wizarding war of Britain has made sure of that.

He sees the moment they catch sight of him. There's a light in their eyes and they straighten infinitesimally—Draco only sees it because he was drinking the sight of them in. He's never been away from them for so long before, and for a Malfoy family comes before everything else.

Mother looks better, the strain he'd almost gotten used to seeing on her face has disappeared and the lines on her face has smoothed out—no frown of worry in sight.

Father looks _healthy_ in a way it's been a long time since Draco last saw. The toll his time in Azkaban followed by living under Vol— _Riddle's_ rule for so long seems to finally have disappeared from his countenance. He looks strong, powerful... He looks _healthy_ in a way Draco remembers from his childhood. In a way Draco has sorely missed.

The separation, not having to worry constantly about Draco, has done them much good—the same way the trip has Draco.

He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat, blinks away the tears that want to build in the corner of his eyes, but allows a smile to break out on his face. He's so happy to see them, and to see them _well._

Everything may just have been worth it for this. For seeing his family happy and healthy again.

He expects them to keep pureblood decorum when he reaches them, perhaps a hand squeezing his shoulder or some imaginary dust brushed off, but to his surprise he finds himself pulled into a hug—his parents curling around him in a way that is reminiscent to what they did during the trial.

Forming a physical barrier around him with their own bodies, the only way they could protect him then. No wands, no magic… Just placing themselves between him and anything that may try to cause him harm.

"My darling," his mother whispers, stroking a soft hand over his cheek and brushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear.

"Draco," his father says, voice unfathomably soft and so low Draco nearly doesn't hear it at all, but the affection in it makes it clear that he may not have used the endearment mother did, but he means the same.

There's so much love in their voices Draco finds himself choking up again.

If they weren't in public, he would allow himself to fall into their arms and weep.

"I've missed you," he croaks before he coughs and tries to clear his throat.

Mother's face is soft and her smile indulging. "We missed you too." 

They draw back and Narcissa gestures forward. "Now come, your friends are waiting outside. We shouldn't dawdle."

Draco's heart skips a beat. His friends are here? He laughs, a short happy laugh, and nods.

He's missed _them_ too. It will be good to see them.

  


* * *

  


Draco steps out in the sunlight—seems he came back home on a sunny day, surprisingly—shielding his eyes from it with one hand.

"Draco!" Gregory shouts as soon as he does.

Draco can't even begin to stop the wide smile that spreads on his face upon seeing one of his oldest friends, healthy and hale and looking _happy._ "Greg!" Draco really has missed him, especially since he never returned to Hogwarts and got himself a job in a bakery in Diagon Alley instead.

Pansy and Blaise are standing on each of his sides, both of them smiling too. Merlin, he's missed them _so much._

He hurries up to them, leaving his parents behind, but before he can say anything else, Greg sweeps him up in a bear hug, thick and strong arms encircling Draco's narrow waist, lifting his feet clean off the ground—laughing loudly all the while.

"Put me down you big oaf!" Draco yells, clinging to Greg's shoulders, but his laughter belies his words and Greg pays him no mind at all.

When he finally _does_ put Draco down, Draco finds himself swept into a hard hug by Pansy—she buries her face in his shoulder and mutters about him having been gone too long—before she steps back and lets Blaise pull Draco into a swift hug as well.

It's... unusual, he thinks, to be hugging this much. _Especially_ in public... But he's been gone for _two years_ , and he's missed them—and he's so very happy to find that they have missed him too.

The fact that he could stand their touch without even a hint of a flinch sends a warm feeling of contentment spreading through his chest.

Footsteps come closer and Draco glances over his shoulder at his parents, only now reaching them due to having walked at a decidedly sedate pace.

"Would you all like to come for dinner? We'd love to have you, and I'm sure Draco has so much to tell us about his trip," Mother says as she comes up behind Draco, gently placing her hands on his shoulders.

"That would be lovely, Mrs Malfoy," Pansy says, cheeks flushing. Blaise and Greg nod eagerly and Draco shares a smile with them as they catch his eyes.

Draco is grateful that his friends readily agree. He's missed them, just as he's missed his parents, and he'd like to learn more about what they've been doing while he's been gone, just as he wants to tell them all about what he's been up to.

_Learn and Teach Others._

He smiles as they make to apparate to the summer cottage, Mother Side-Alonging Father.

He cannot wait.

  


* * *

  


Mipsy is _thrilled_ when Draco enters the cottage, rushing forward and seemingly only barely stopping herself from clinging to his robes.

"Oh! Master Draco is being looking so healthy and handsome," she exclaims, hands clasped together and pressed against her little chest.

"Thank you, Mipsy," Draco murmurs and looks her over.

She's wearing a new uniform, clean and in a lovely cream colour, with the Malfoy crest embroidered on the chest. Draco smiles when he sees it. He's glad that his parents have taken up the tradition of giving new uniforms to the loyal house elves every Christmas again—though the process of it requires a whole ritual and is honestly a bit of a pain. It stopped when Father made them all hide once Vol— _Riddle_ returned. It was something taken from them, and Draco is glad to see that his parents have taken it back.

"That is a very nice uniform, Mipsy," he says, smiling when she holds out the dress and makes a small spin in with clear pleasure and enthusiasm.

"I is very thankful, Master Draco! Master and Mistress be giving us such nice uniforms!"

He watches as she bustles off into the kitchen to help the other house elves with dinner and smiles again.

It's good to be home. It really is.

  


* * *

  


Dinner is amazing. As much as Draco has loved trying new foods during his travels, there's something incredibly comforting about eating all the foods he's loved to eat growing up. It reminds him quite a bit of each summer coming home from Hogwarts, being piled with presents by his parents and having the house elves cook him all of his favourite meals.

It's a "welcome home" on a deeper level than he can properly articulate, and if he'd been alone he might just have let himself cry a bit over Mipsy and Dal's quite frankly outstanding plum-pear pie.

"Draco, you _have_ to explain all the jewellery to me," Pansy says suddenly, brushing his hair away from his ear and exposing his earring. "You've never been one to wear much of it, but I've counted four bracelets, at least one necklace and a pair of earrings on you at present times."

Draco laughs. "If you're expecting me to be embarrassed, Pansy, I'm afraid I'm going to have to disappoint you." He shakes his head and gives her a smug smile. "It's magic jewellery. Functions in many ways like a wand, which means that should I get disarmed, I'm still more than capable of casting magic."

Blaise makes an intrigued sound. "Where did you get it? I've never heard of something like that before." He leans forward, seemingly to get a better look, and Draco unclips one earring and hands it over to him for inspection.

"I was in India, actually. And an absolutely lovely woman named Diya took me in. We spent quite some time together before she started teaching me." He smiles at the memory. "I can both cast magic with the jewellery as well as make it; Diya taught me both. Though I had to promise her not to teach anyone else, only send them her way in case they were curious."

"Impressive," Father murmurs and takes a sip of wine, eyeing the earring in Blaise's hand. Draco finds himself preening slightly at his father's approval.

"It's absolutely _fascinating,_ really!" Draco cannot even begin to hide his enthusiasm. "I learned so many things while I was away. So many new ways of looking at magic, new ingredients for potions, and..." He trails off and glances at his left wrist.

Should he tell them now, or should he wait?

"Draco?" His mother lays a hand on his shoulder then, immediately picking up on his indecision. "Is something wrong?"

Draco shakes his head, mind made up. "No, not at all. In fact... So much is a lot better than when I left. I've grown and changed in ways I couldn't have dreamt of before. I'm... _better._ " His parents will understand that last bit far better than his friends. They may have seen some of it while he was at Hogwarts with them, but they never experienced his nightmares the way his parents did.

"I'm glad," Father says, face uncommonly soft. From the surprised looks Draco can see his friends wearing, it's likely the first time they've seen him look anything but perfectly put together.

"There's more than that. When I was with the Cherokee in the United States... Well, they gave me a gift I'm not sure I can ever repay."

Before anyone can ask any questions, Draco pulls his left sleeve up and exposes his Oath Mark, shows his friends and family that the Dark Lord's mark is no longer branded on his skin, shows them how Voldemort has no claim left on Draco at all.

He sees their surprise and hears their soft gasps and sharp intakes of breaths, and smiles.

He'll have to explain it no doubt, but from the joy and hope on his mother's face, he knows they will be alright.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you'll continue to enjoy this fic as we move forward!

Draco wakes to the sound of pecking at his window.

He squints against the sun streaming in through it to see the shadow of an owl outside. He considers ignoring the bird for just a while longer and going back to sleep, but when it pecks at his window again he sighs. It’s an impatient one, then.

He shuffles out of bed and rubs at his tired eyes and heads over to his desk area to open his window. The barn owl outside gives him a small hoot and sticks its leg out immediately. It may honestly be the most impatient owl Draco’s had to deal with in a long while.

Can’t be a Ministry owl then, those are usually fairly lazy and grumpy, as if they’re upset that they have to do their job at all. Says a lot about the Ministry in general, not that Draco thinks about it.

He gently unties the letter from its leg and gives it a small treat from the box he keeps by the window. His fingers twitch as he considers stroking its feathers, but there’s something sharp in its eyes that makes him change his mind. He’d rather _not_ be bitten by an owl this morning.

It settles down on the windowsill, so it's clearly expecting a reply, and seems to be taking a short nap. Hooting softly in its sleep. Draco looks at it with envy, he’d really like to just go and pass back out.

Draco turns his attention to the letter instead and winces when he finds that despite what he thought, it _is_ a summons by the Ministry of Magic asking for his presence. There's a few time- and date options for him to fill in, so it's clearly not meant for him to take as a threat of being sent to Azkaban. If it had been they would have told him to be there at a specific time and place rather than giving him a choice in the matter.

He picks up the muggle pen Eliza gave him and fills in his choice of date—it shouldn't clash with anything else—and copies it down on a bit of parchment for himself as a reminder.

He'll need to get started on his applications for healers’ schools if he wants to finish that before the application time is out and the new term starts. He'd hate having to wait an extra year simply because he sat around and didn't finish his application.

His parents had been surprised when he told them the news, but they accepted it with surprising grace—Draco appreciates that, quite honestly. He would have hated fighting them over it, but he wouldn't have given the dream up.

Of course, it’s entirely possible that his parents are just happy to see him want to do _something_. He knows he was in quite a state before he left for his trip.

If he's refused from the schools he will accept that, maybe try again at a later date, but he will not simply not try. You miss all the shots you don’t take, as Mrs Williams had told him with a smile.

The owl at his window makes a small snoring sound when Draco carefully lifts its leg to tie the letter back on. It doesn't take off immediately, instead it stays on his window sill for another fifteen minutes. Perhaps it actually _is_ like the other Ministry owls: lazy and unwilling to do its job. The impatience was probably just because it wanted to be able to go to sleep, and it couldn’t do that before Draco had taken his letter.

He feels a twitch of his lips at that.

He considers shooing it away, but decides to let it take its nap in peace. If it's willing to sleep on the job then it's likely not any hurry. Typical Ministry owls.

He finally smiles and turns around to get ready. He may as well get up and start going about his day, since he’s woken up in the process of filling in the form. Still, he can’t help but glance at his bed with longing as he brushes his hair.

The owl takes off after Draco has washed himself and gotten dressed but before he heads into the other room to eat his breakfast. He watches as it takes off, but he doesn't linger. There’s hardly any point in doing so.

Mipsy and Dal are already up and bustling about, shooing him over to the table and refusing any attempts of his to help with cooking.

Mipsy may have been willing to teach him to cook and bake before he left the country, but it seems as if she has now decided that he's looking good and healthy enough that he shouldn't be cooking or baking at all. Apparently only distraught teenagers on the verge of mental collapse are allowed to be in a house elf’s kitchen.

He stifles a chuckle and watches them bustle about instead, drinking in the peace and calm of the scene. Familiar chaos.

  


* * *

  


Draco is still avoiding the news—though he knows he should probably try to work on that—but he can't help but catch a glimpse of the Prophet when father reads it over breakfast.

It is, after all, hard to miss your own name written in bold letters—especially when it's accompanied by a picture.

He doesn't want to know what it says, but he assumes it's about how he's back in the country. Maybe also something about what a horrible person he is. Considering Rita Skeeter still writes for the Prophet—if Father's grumblings are to be believed—he has no doubt that there's something inflammatory in the text, maybe also something about his schoolboy rivalry with Harry Potter. Skeeter always was obsessed with Potter, so it wouldn't surprise Draco if she managed to insert him in there somehow.

Draco takes a sip of his water and observes his father's profile.

It's comforting to see colour back in his cheek—though still Malfoy pale—and that the cheeks are no longer sunken but rather more on the healthy side. Simply a face with sharp cheekbones, rather than a gaunt one.

Draco feels almost uncomfortably relieved to be able to see such a sight again. He knows that it could just as easily never have been a reality again—if Father had been sent to Azkaban instead he would likely look nowhere near as healthy as he does. Not to mention that draco wouldn’t be seeing him in their summer cottage. At _best_ they would meet in the dreary world of the Ministry holding cells, and that’s less than likely.

"How has the purging of the Manor gone?" Draco doesn't fidget—it's beneath him, and he’ll need to start caring about those things again now that he’s in Britain—but he feels the urge nevertheless.

Father looks up from the paper. "It's almost finished, most of the residual curses have been removed, and non-heirloom dark artefacts have been rooted out and destroyed." He smirks slightly. "Most of what remains is the Ministry and the Unspeakables fighting us on trying to take books from our library and some of our heirlooms."

Mother titters, but there's something almost malicious in it. "They want to _study_ them. Being allowed inside the Manor, being guided through it, have made them realise how much information the Malfoy family sit on." She brushes a lock of hair behind her ear and takes a delicate sip of tea. "Knowledge is power, darling, and being in the Manor was a reminder to them that despite where we are now, the Malfoy family goes back as an unbroken magical line for more than a thousand years and we still hold all the knowledge that goes with it."

Father smiles. "It was quite uncomfortable for them to realise that laws passed centuries ago forbid them from taking it from us. The Manor, the lands, the heirlooms, the money... They can demand for us to pay restitutions, which we did, but they had no power to simply take it all. Not unless they wished to get in trouble with other countries as well, considering that we hold multiple citizenships."

Draco snorts. "Do you think they'll be changing those laws now? To try and keep us in line?" He rests his head on his hand—impolite thought it may be.

"Ah, but then the laws would be the same for all other pureblood and half-blood lines, they cannot write laws that only affect us." Father's smile is sly. "There is no way they will, since it would be political suicide. The Longbottoms, for example, maybe have been much gentler with the Ministry than we ever have, but they are an old line and Augusta Longbottom would hardly stand for it."

Draco considers that. Father isn't wrong. There are many pureblood lines—even if you disregard the Sacred 28—and half-blood lines that are powerful and influential. Not to mention that many of the people sitting in Wizengamot belong to them. By trying to weaken the Malfoy line's rights and privileges, they would do the same for themselves.

Allow the Malfoys to keep their inheritance and what they own, or cripple their own power?

Draco finds himself smiling. Tarnished though their name may be, there is still power in being a Malfoy.

They can make up for the harm they've caused, and they can do it while living at the same standards they're used to.

His name and past may make his future harder in a lot of aspects, but in some ways his name will always be a strength and an incredible source of privilege.

He turns his attention back to his breakfast for a few moments, before he remembers that he should probably mention that he was called to the Ministry to his parents. He has no doubt that they'll want to know.

  


* * *

  


The meeting room is empty, despite it being mere minutes before the supposed starting time of said meeting. Draco assumes it's some sort of interrogation tactic, to try and make him uncomfortable and give whomever he's meeting the upper hand.

He’s hardly going to make it so easy for them. He’s learned more than a few meditation techniques during his travels, he can do that while seemingly not doing anything at all.

Time ticks by and Draco spends it looking at his nails and cuticles. He should probably do something about that, he hasn't been as good about keeping up with his care routine for his hands while he's been away.

Finally the door opens and...

How interesting.

Head Auror Robards step inside, face calm and placid.

Draco meets his eyes with an equally bland look on his face, unperturbed and unconcerned.

He's done nothing wrong and he hasn't broken any new rules, so unless Robards is about to go back on the Wizengamot’s ruling regarding Draco's freedom, he has nothing to fear.

"Mister Malfoy, I apologise for my tardiness." Robards doesn't sound insincere, but that means little to Draco. He grew up among the posh elite, and being able to fake sincerity is neither an uncommon skill nor something an Auror would find anything but useful. He takes his seat with easy strength—a man in full control of his body.

"Head Auror Robards." Draco inclines his head, but says nothing more.

Robards clears his throat and rustles his papers. "Now, you're not in any trouble, Mister Malfoy. The DMLE simply has a few questions for you."

How interesting.

"Well, depending on the questions I'll answer them to the best of my ability." Be co-operative, but don't promise too much—Draco can play this game; his parents have taught him well.

Robards's eyes narrow, but he doesn't comment on Draco's wording. Instead he glances through his papers until he pulls one out and places it on the table in front of Draco.

Draco doesn't move, doesn't lean forward, but he glances towards the paper. From what he can it's a travel itinerary, starting from the portkey office in London, heading to France, followed by India...

Ah.

So the DMLE followed Draco's travel path, but since he left India on muggle transport, they lost track of him until he arrived back in London from Sweden. Draco presumes they worry about where he went after India, and what he's been doing for the almost two years during which they lost track of him.

He raises an eyebrow, tilts his head to the side, but says nothing. After all, Robards hasn't asked any questions yet. Draco only promised to answer questions, not to offer up information without prompting.

Robards clears his throat again. "You left the country very quickly after your probation ended—which of course you were entitled to, you were a free man. However, the DMLE would still like to know, if you're willing to tell us, where you've been during these past two years." He fiddles with the neck of his robes. "You must understand that considering your situation, it looks quite bad."

Draco has never quite understood his father's enjoyment of politics, not really, and he finds himself very pleased with his plans for the future. Unless wherever he ends up working has a lot of office politics. They may actually be a fun game to play, now that he thinks about it.

"Well, I left India on a muggle train, as a matter of fact," he starts, and lets his wand slide out of his sleeve. With a flick of it, he brings forth a world map that he places on the table between them.

Robards looks entirely wrong footed and Draco has to work hard to keep from smiling. Who knew being cooperative would surprise the man so much?

"I travelled through Nepal." He draws one finger across the map in accordance with his travel route. "And continued until I reached China. After that..."

He gives Robards a complete run-through of all the destinations he saw as well as an estimation of his length of stay. He knows the exact dates he arrived and left—it's all in his travel diary—but Robards doesn't need to know those details. Not in Draco’s opinion, anyway.

"I see," Robards mutters and scratches his beard slightly. "Do you have any... travel receipts or the like, in case we wish to verify what you're saying? Purely routine, you see."

Draco doesn't roll his eyes, but it's a near thing. Routine his well-shaped pureblood arse.

"No, but I'm sure if you contacted the portkey offices for the countries from which I took a portkey, I'm sure they can give you that information." He smiles politely, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "You could, of course, inquire with the Australian Ministry regarding my ongoing patent work there if you wish to control my stay there."

"Patent?" Robards stumbles over the word, blinking rapidly.

Draco had considered that perhaps he should try and ensure that the Ministry finds out about his and Hannah's work—it would surely only be good for him, especially if the Ministry decided to try and get involved with his application to Great Morel—the medical academy linked to St Mungo's hospital.

"Oh yes. I stayed with the Koorie, Aboriginal Australians, and together with one of their members, Hannah, I experimented quite a bit with potions making. We managed to create a numbing agent that should work excellently for wound treatment and during surgeries. We applied for a patent and for the Australian Ministry to ensure the safety and use of it. It should be nearing completion of the clinical trials, if you're curious."

Robards doesn't seem to have anything to say to that.

Draco lets the silence persist; he has no interest in breaking it. One thing that is important to learn, in interviews such as these, it’s to be comfortable with silence. Else you’re more likely to say more things simply to keep things from seemingly becoming awkward.

After a few moments, Robards seems to shake himself free from whatever stupor he was in. "Yes, well, thank you, Mister Malfoy. Now..."

The meeting doesn't continue for much longer, Robards asks a few general questions about his trip—nothing Draco minds talking about—but seems torn between suspicion and surprise. It is as if he's not sure whether or not to believe that Draco has changed from what most people has always seen him as—a typical pureblood heir with all their prejudices and beliefs—or if he's just trying to play some sort of trick.

Well, unless Robards actually tries something, like halting Draco's application or something like that, it's no skin off Draco's back no matter what the man thinks.

He leaves the Ministry the same way he came, with his head held high and unhurried, graceful movements.

He misses being Draco, the British traveller who just wanted to see the world and learn as much as he could, but he knows that in Britain he will need to be more alert than that. He cannot offer up any weaknesses to the people around him, lest they smell blood in the water.

Besides, Draco the Traveller is not so different from Draco in Britain, the main difference really was that Draco the Traveller didn't really have time or inclination to care about his appearance, and accepted what comforts he could, while Draco in Britain can indulge his vanity and love of comfort to his heart's content.

Appearances matter, but he's the same person.

Though in Britain he's nobody's guest and owes no one humility as thanks for hospitality.


End file.
